Ghost House

by Robert Frost

　　

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I dwell in a lonely house I knowThat 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 shieldThe woods come back to the mowing field;The orchard tree has grown one copseOf new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;The footpath down to the well is healed.I dwell with a strangely aching heartIn that vanished abode there far apartOn that disused and forgotten roadThat has no dust-bath now for the toad.Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;The whippoorwill is coming to shoutAnd hush and cluck and flutter about:I hear him begin far enough awayFull many a time to say his sayBefore he arrives to say it out.It is under the small, dim, summer star.I know not who these mute folk areWho share the unlit place with me--Those stones out under the low-limbed treeDoubtless 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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