The Old House By The Mere

Five rotting gables look upon A garden rank with flowers and weeds; Old iron gates on posts of stone, From which the grass-grown roadway leads. Five rotting gable-points appear Above bleak yews and cedars sad, Beneath which lies the sleepy mere In lazy lilies clad.

At morn the slender dragon-fly, A living ray of light, darts past; The burly bee comes charging by Winding a surly blast. At noon amid the fervid leaves The insects quarrel, harsh and hot; In bitter briers the spider weaves A web with silver shot.

At eve the hermit cricket rears A plaintive prayer, and creaks and creaks; The bat, like some wing'd elfin, veers Beneath the sunset's streaks. The caterpillar gnaws the leaf; The mottled toad croaks drowsily; And then the owl, like some dark grief, Cries in the old beech-tree.

At night the blistering dew comes down And lies as white as autumn frost Upon the green, upon the brown-- You'd think each bush a ghost. The crescent moon sheathes its white sword Within a cloud; and, gray with fear, One large blue star keeps stealthy guard Above the house and mere.

The livid lilies rotting lie On oozy beds of weltering leaves; The will-o'-wisps go flickering by,-- And then the water heaves, And, like some monstrous blossom there, A maiden's corpse with staring eyes, And naked breast and raven hair, Slow in the mere doth rise.

And when the clock of some far town Knells midnight, in that house of sins, In haunted chambers, up and down, The dance of death begins; And stiff, stiff silks sweep, rustling, And stately satins none may see; And then soft sounds of music ring In wildest melody.

And through the halls the demon dance Whirls onward; and dark corridors Resound with song and feet that glance Along the falling floors. Then suddenly, as if in fear, The music ends, the dance is done; And booming over house and mere A far-off clock strikes one.