The Haunted House (Brown)

UPON a little rise it stands alone,Dark and forbidding, where three cross-roads meet,—Its dim, fierce windows frowning on the street,The time-stained walls with moss and mould o'ergrown.

Pink hollyhocks group idly at the door,And bend to pierce the oak with prying eyes,Or shake their heads and whisper, gossip-wise,The long-dead secrets of those days of yore.

The jealous door seems warning me away;The grating hinges shudder as it swings;Across my face dim shadows sweep their wings;And round me heavy cobwebs swing and sway.

There is a window looking to the sea;The small square panes are blurred as if with tears.Here years ago a young bride felt those fearsWhich even now thrill coldly over me.

Here trembling still she sat, yet made no moan,But felt an unseen shadow fill the door,ANd heard a light step steal across the floor,—And shrank beneath a touch which chilled her own.

Once more I pass the hall, the dim oak stair.A sudden gust breathes down, a trembling sigh;A silken rustle lightly whispers by;The fragrance of dried rose-leaves fills the air.