Haunted

Gaunt and deserted on the hill,
The old house stands alone;
Its red brick blotched by greeny damps,
Its rooms the spider's home.

The tottering chimneys
Lean upon the sky,
Like crooked distaffs
Etched against the blue
And at its feet the river winds,
Deserted too.

Haunted with memories
Of folk long dead,
Of children's laughter, woman's tears,
Of all the joys of life
And all the pains
Thru passing years.

And, as we pass
Its one lone, sentinel tree,
See! There bedewed
With never-ceasing tears,
Thru the dusty cobwebbed pane
A pallid phantom peers.

^__Louisa Cooke Don-Carlos.