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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.
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