The Haunted House
It is vacant in the daylight,
There is nothing living there.
But at night the foot of Something
Goes up and down the stair.
There's a fence of rusted pickets;
In the yard the tangled grass
Clutches at the feet in warning:
Every pane's a shattered glass;
On a plot where burst a fountain
Prone a marble naiad lies
Staring up in sun or starshine
With unseeing, soulless eyes;
Ancient weeds have choked the flowers
That in patterned order stood;
Step by step with sure encroachment,
Marches in the gloomy wood. . . . .
It is vacant in the daylight,
There is nothing living there;
For at night the foot of SOMETHING
Goes up and down the stair.
There is nothing living there.
But at night the foot of Something
Goes up and down the stair.
There's a fence of rusted pickets;
In the yard the tangled grass
Clutches at the feet in warning:
Every pane's a shattered glass;
On a plot where burst a fountain
Prone a marble naiad lies
Staring up in sun or starshine
With unseeing, soulless eyes;
Ancient weeds have choked the flowers
That in patterned order stood;
Step by step with sure encroachment,
Marches in the gloomy wood. . . . .
It is vacant in the daylight,
There is nothing living there;
For at night the foot of SOMETHING
Goes up and down the stair.
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