The Haunted House

UPON a little rise it stands alone,
Dark and forbidding, where three cross-roads meet,—
Its dim, fierce windows frowning on the street,
The time-stained walls with moss and mould o'ergrown.

Pink hollyhocks group idly at the door,
And bend to pierce the oak with prying eyes,
Or shake their heads and whisper, gossip-wise,
The long-dead secrets of those days of yore.

The jealous door seems warning me away;
The grating hinges shudder as it swings;
Across my face dim shadows sweep their wings;
And round me heavy cobwebs swing and sway.

There is a window looking to the sea;
The small square panes are blurred as if with tears.
Here years ago a young bride felt those fears
Which even now thrill coldly over me.

[...] Read more

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 18, Issue 3 (1895)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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