  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. |
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