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.