The Haunted House
It stands neglected, silent, far from the ways of men,
A lonely little cottage beside a lonely glen;
And, dreaming there, I saw it when sunset’s golden
rays
Had touched it with the glory of other, sweeter days.
They say the house is haunted, and—well, it is, I guess, For every empty window just aches with loneliness; With loneliness that tortures and memory that flays; Ah, yes, the house is haunted with ghosts of other days.
The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrow stair, And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayer Steals out, and then a love song, and then a bugle call, And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall.
The story of the old house that stands beside the glen? That story is forgotten by every one; but when The house is touched and softened by sunset’s golden rays, I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts of sweeter days.