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Robert Frost - Ghost House

I DWELL in a lonely house I know 
That vanished many a summer ago, 
And left no trace but the cellar walls, 
And a cellar in which the daylight falls, 
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. 

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield 
The woods come back to the mowing field; 
The orchard tree has grown one copse 
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; 
The footpath down to the well is healed. 

I dwell with a strangely aching heart 
In that vanished abode there far apart 
On that disused and forgotten road 
That has no dust-bath now for the toad. 
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; 

The whippoorwill is coming to shout 
And hush and cluck and flutter about: 
I hear him begin far enough away 
Full many a time to say his say 
Before he arrives to say it out. 

It is under the small, dim, summer star. 
I know not who these mute folk are 
Who share the unlit place with me-- 
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree 
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar. 

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad, 
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,-- 
With none among them that ever sings, 
And yet, in view of how many things, 
As sweet companions as might be had.

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Added: Feb 1 2004 | Viewed: 86645 times | Comments and analysis of Ghost House by Robert Frost Comments (147)

Ghost House - Comments and Information

Poet: Robert Frost
Poem: 2. Ghost House
Volume: A Boy's Will
Year: Published/Written in 1913
Poem of the Day: Dec 13 2006

Comment 147 of 147, added on April 20th, 2014 at 1:05 AM.
kkTblePuNPGDN

V6zsN6 Great, thanks for sharing this blog article.Really looking forward to read more. Cool.

awesome things! from Austria
Comment 146 of 147, added on April 13th, 2014 at 9:13 PM.
Thanks alot - your a

Thanks alot - your answer solved all my problems after several days stunrgligg

Blue from Congo, Democratic Republic of
Comment 145 of 147, added on April 13th, 2014 at 7:51 PM.
Simply a smiling vin

Simply a smiling vinstait here to share the love (:, btw great design and style. The price one pays for pursuing a profession, or calling, is an intimate knowledge of its ugly side. by James Arthur Baldwin.

Junior from Trinidad and Tobago, Republic

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