"An upper chamber in a darkened house"

An upper chamber in a darkened house, Where, ere his footsteps reached ripe manhood's brink, Terror and anguish were his cup to drink,-- I cannot rid the thought, nor hold it close; But dimly dream upon that man alone;-- Now though the autumn clouds most softly pass; The cricket chides beneath the doorstep stone, And greener than the season grows the grass. Nor can I drop my lids, nor shade my brows, But there he stands beside the lifted sash; And with a swooning of the heart, I think Where the black shingles slope to meet the boughs, And--shattered on the roof like smallest snows-- The tiny petals of the mountain-ash.