Cross Roads

THE HAUNTED HOUSE

     It stands neglected, silent, far from the ways of men,
     A lonely little cottage beside a lonely glen;
     And, dreaming there, I saw it when sunset's golden
        rays
     Had touched it with the glory of other, sweeter days.

     They say the house is haunted, and—well, it is, I
        guess,
     For every empty window just aches with loneliness;
     With loneliness that tortures and memory that flays;
     Ah, yes, the house is haunted with ghosts of other
        days.

     The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrow
        stair,
     And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayer
     Steals out, and then a love song, and then a bugle
        call,
     And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall.

     The story of the old house that stands beside the
        glen?
     That story is forgotten by every one; but when
     The house is touched and softened by sunset's golden
        rays,
     I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts of
        sweeter days.