The Haunted House


See the house. How grim it stands
In its lonely solitude!
Feel the ghostly clammy hands
Repelling you
From the spirits’ old abode,
And telling you,
With its frowning windows high,
And its sombre oaken door
Telling you as you pass by
Of the distant days of yore.

See the trees. How gaunt they stand,
Swaying, moaning in the wind,
Like a sad neglected band.
All is dead, and in the mind
There the horned moon behind
Rises like a spectral bow;
There the mournful hoot of owl,
There the cattle’s plaintive low,
Seem like cries of graveless ghoul
Aged and rotten!

There so spectral in the light
Of the moon and cold stars bright;
There the witness of some plight
Much too gruesome to recite;
There opposed to all that’s right;
There the scene of hate and spite,
Nameless terror, loathing, fright,
And of supernatural rite.

When you pass the manor near,
Let no sob come, let no tear;
Hurry by lest waiting hate
Tempt you through the rusty gate;
Leave behind this haunted place
To oblivion and disgrace!
Let its sightless windows be
Sunk into obscurity!