  Along this stillness steals their ghostly laughter: The oaths they swore, the clamant song and jest, Are haunting still each oaken beam and rafter, That looked on many a gay, forgotten guest. The clink of cups, the muffled clang of swords, These, and the flapping cards, will not be stilled, Though dust has spread the long-abandoned boards, And hides at last the crimson wine they spilled. And still, they say, on sullen nights of rain, A passer-by may hear, beyond the door, An old accounting for this ugly stain That makes an evil pattern on the floor— A sound of dice—an oath—a crashing chair ... And sudden, grievous silence fallen there. |
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