THEIRS is the house whose windows—every pane—
⁠Are made of darkly stained or clouded glass:
Sometimes you come upon them in the lane,
⁠The saddest crowd that you will ever pass.

But still we merry town or village folk
⁠Throw to their scattered stare a kindly grin,
And think no shame to stop and crack a joke
⁠With the incarnate wages of man's sin.

None but ourselves in our long gallery we meet,
⁠The moor-hen stepping from her reeds with dainty feet,
⁠The hare-bell bowing on his stem,
Dance not with us; their pulses beat
⁠To fainter music; nor do we to them
⁠Make their life sweet.

The gayest crowd that they will ever pass
⁠Are we to brother-shadows in the lane:
Our windows, too, are clouded glass
⁠To them, yes, every pane!