Weird Tales/Volume 10/Issue 5/An Old House
An Old House
Bathed in mystery and moonlight,
Wistfully it stands
At the end of a lonely, winding road
Where cobwebs hang in strands
Of dusty lace an old ghost hung
Before a sagging door—
And winds go moaning through the rooms
With fog from down the moor.
Never a light—nor sound, nor laugh—
Never a footfall—wait!
What was that?—did I hear a step
Down by the creaking gate?
Echoes resounding in empty halls—
Shadows that spring like cats—
Sudden drafts that seem like breaths,
And a fluttering of bats.
Eery tenants—ghosts of old—
Loves and griefs—and tears—
Underneath a leaking roof
Haunting mildewed years.
Straggling roses climb the porches
Hiding broken panes,
Though their roots be dry and fainting
Waiting for the rains.
Bathed in silent, moonlit fragrance,
I hear the old ghosts talk—
Must be wind in that old maple
Down the lonely walk.
Bats, and broken, paneless windows—
Creaking shutters—weeds—
Loneliness and sobbing wind ghosts,
Wait for the friend it needs.