Print this Page

Ghost House

Robert Frost

 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. 

Fables & Tales Nonfiction Poetry Short Stories

Aesop Andersen, H.C. Dickinson, Emily Frost, Robert Grimm Henry, O Kipling, Rudyard Longfellow, Henry Poe, Edgar Allan Shakespeare, William Thoreau, Henry Twain, Mark Wilde, Oscar