The House of Ghosts

I like this poem by Humbert Wolfe and seeing as this is the week of ghosts and spooks it seems like the right time to share it.

The House of Ghosts

First, to describe the house.
Who has not seen it?
Once, at the end of an evening's walk
The leaves that suddenly open,
And as sudden screen it,
With the first, flickering hint of shadowy eaves.

Was there a light in the high window?
Or only the moon's cool candle, palely lit?
Was there a pathway leading to the door?
Or only grass, and none to walk on it?

And surely someone cried:
'Who goes there, who? '
And ere the lips could shape the whispered 'I! '
The same voice rose, and chuckled
'You, tis you! '
A voice, or the furred night owl's human cry?

Who has not seen the house?
Who has not started towards the gate, half-seen,
And paused, half-fearing,
And half beyond all fear,
And the leaves parted again,
And there was nothing in the clearing. 


Granny Marigold