It stands neglected, silent, far from the ways of men, <br />A lonely little cottage beside a lonely glen; <br />And, dreaming there, I saw it when sunset's golden <br />rays <br />Had touched it with the glory of other, sweeter days. <br /> <br />They say the house is haunted, and - well, it is, I <br />guess, <br />For every empty window just aches with loneliness; <br />With loneliness that tortures and memory that flays; <br />Ah, yes, the house is haunted with ghosts of other <br />days. <br /> <br />The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrow <br />stair, <br />And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayer <br />Steals out, and then a love song, and then a bugle <br />call, <br />And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall. <br /> <br />The story of the old house that stands beside the <br />glen? <br />That story is forgotten by every one; but when <br />The house is touched and softened by sunset's golden <br />rays, <br />I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts of <br />sweeter days.<br /><br />Margaret Elizabeth Sangster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-haunted-house-11/
