Ghost House - Robert Frost

 

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 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.

BIO: Robert Frost - one of America's most beloved poets - was born in San Francisco, CA in 1874 and died in Boston, MA in 1963. He was a teacher and poet who published numerous volumes of poems.