Classic English Literature Notes

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.