Sitting alone at night
Careless of time,
From the house next door
I hear the clock chime.
Ten, eleven, twelve;
One, two, three--
It is all the same to the clock,
And much the same to me.
But to-night more than sense heard it:
I opened my eyes wide
To look at the wall and wonder
What lay on the other side.
They are quiet people
That live next door;
I never hear them scrape
Their chairs along the floor,
They do not laugh loud, or sing,
Or scratch in the grate,
I have never seen a taxi
Drawn up at their gate;
And though their back-garden
Is always neat and trim
It has a humbled look,
And no one walks therein.
So did not their chiming clock
Imply some hand to wind it,
I might doubt if the wall between us
Had any life behind it.
London neighbours are such
That I may never know more
Than this of the people
Who live next door.
While they, for their part,
Should they hazard a guess
At me on my side of the wall
Will know as little, or less;
For my life has grown quiet,
As quiet as theirs;
And the clock has been silent on my chimney-piece
For years and for years.