The Old House

Quaint and forgotten, by an unused road, An old house stands: around its doors the dense Rank ironweeds grow high; The chipmunks make a highway of its fence; And on its sunken flagstones newt and toad As still as lichens lie.

The timid snake upon its hearth's cool sand Sleeps undisturbed; the squirrel haunts its roof; And in the clapboard sides Of closets,--dim with many a spider woof,-- Like the uncertain tapping of a hand, The beetle-borer hides.

Above its lintel, under mossy eaves, The mud-wasps build their cells; and in the floor Of its neglected porch The black bees nest: through each deserted door, Vague as faint, phantom footsteps, steal the leaves And dropped cones of the larch.

But come with me when sunset's magic old Transforms this ruin--yea! transmutes this house: When windows, one by one,-- Like Age's eyes, that Youth's love-dreams arouse,-- Grow lairs of fire; and a mouth of gold Its wide door towards the sun.

Or let us wait until each rain-stained room Is carpeted with moonlight, patterned oft With shadow'd boughs o'erhead; And through the house the wind goes rustling soft, As might the ghost--a whisper of perfume-- Of some sweet girl long dead.