Ghost House

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
 And left no trace but the cellar walls,
 And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
 The orchard tree has grown one copse
 Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
 On that disused and forgotten road
 That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about :
 I hear him begin far enough away
 Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
 
It is under the small, dim, summer star,
I know not who these mute folk are
 Who share the unlit place with me—
 Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
 With none among them that ever sings,
 And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
Category:Historical Archive/PD
Category:Poetry