I dwell in a lonely house I know <br />That vanished many a summer ago, <br />And left no trace but the cellar walls, <br />And a cellar in which the daylight falls, <br />And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. <br /> <br />O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield <br />The woods come back to the mowing field; <br />The orchard tree has grown one copse <br />Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; <br />The footpath down to the well is healed. <br /> <br />I dwell with a strangely aching heart <br />In that vanished abode there far apart <br />On that disused and forgotten road <br />That has no dust-bath now for the toad. <br />Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; <br /> <br />The whippoorwill is coming to shout <br />And hush and cluck and flutter about: <br />I hear him begin far enough away <br />Full many a time to say his say <br />Before he arrives to say it out. <br /> <br />It is under the small, dim, summer star. <br />I know not who these mute folk are <br />Who share the unlit place with me-- <br />Those stones out under the low-limbed tree <br />Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar. <br /> <br />They are tireless folk, but slow and sad, <br />Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,-- <br />With none among them that ever sings, <br />And yet, in view of how many things, <br />As sweet companions as might be had.<br /><br />Robert Lee Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ghost-house-2/
