A Haunted House

wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

"Here we slept," she says. And he adds,
"Kisses without number." "Waking in the
morning—" "Silver between the trees—"
"Upstairs—" "In the garden—" "When
summer came—" "In winter snowtime—" The
doors go shutting far in the distance, gently
knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The
wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass.
Our eyes darken; we hear no steps beside us; we
see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands
shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound
asleep. Love upon their lips."

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us,
long they look and deeply. Long they pause.
The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops
slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both
floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent;
the faces pondering; the faces that search the
sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats
proudly. "Long years—" he sighs. "Again
you found me," "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping;
in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in
the loft. Here we left our treasure—" Stooping,
their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe!
safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly.
Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure?
The light in the heart."

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