THE 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'ver 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 whipporwill 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.

*

-- Robert Frost