HAUNTED PLACES

"Is anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again the second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only the host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call: And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky. For he suddenly smote upon the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:— "Tell them I came and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall. The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, or hear the sounds I hear; He but perceives what is; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear. We have no title-deeds to house or lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates. The spirit-world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense A vital breath of more ethereal air. Our little lives are kept in equipoise By opposite attractions and desires: The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, And the more noble instinct that aspires. These perturbations, this perpetual jar Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of an unseen star, An undiscovered planet in our sky. And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night— So from the world of spirits there descends, A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

I have read in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead. White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral band was seen, And with a sorrowful deep sound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, No drum nor sentry's pace, The mist-like banners clasped the air As clouds with clouds embrace. And when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarméd air. Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled: Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead. I have read in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave. And then the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.

They say that she died of a broken heart (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me); But her spirit lives, and her soul is part Of this sad old house by the sea. Her lover was fickle and fine and French; It was more than a hundred years ago When he sailed away from her arms,—poor wench!— With the Admiral Rochambeau. I marvel much what periwigged phrase Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker, At what gold-laced speech of those modish days She listened,—the mischief take her! But she kept the posies of mignonette That he gave; and ever as their bloom failed And faded (though with her tears still wet) Her youth with their own exhaled. Till one night when the sea fog wrapped a shroud Round spar and spire and tarn and tree, Her soul went up on that lifted cloud From this sad old house by the sea. And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, She walks unbidden from room to room, And the air is filled as she passes through With a subtle, sad perfume. The delicate odor of mignonette, The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet, Is all that tells of her story; yet Could she think of a sweeter way? I sit in the sad old house to-night— Myself a ghost from a farther sea; And I trust that this Quaker woman might, In courtesy, visit me. For the laugh is fled from the porch and lawn, And the bugle died from the fort on the hill, And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, And the grand piano is still. Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two; And there is no sound in the sad old house, But the long veranda dripping with dew, And in the wainscot a mouse. The light of my study-lamp streams out From the library door, but has gone astray In the depths of the darkened hall; small doubt But the Quakeress knows the way. Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought With outward watching and inward fret? But I swear that the air just now was fraught With the odor of mignonette! I open the window and seem almost— So still lies the ocean—to hear the beat Of its great Gulf Artery off the coast, And to bask in its tropic heat. In my neighbor's windows the gas lights flare As the dancers swing in a waltz from Strauss; And I wonder now could I fit that air To the song of this sad old house. And no odor of mignonette there is, But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn; And maybe from causes as slight as this The quaint old legend was born. But the soul of that subtle sad perfume, As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast The mummy laid in his rocky tomb, Awakens my buried past. And I think of the passion that shook my youth, Of its aimless loves and its idle pains, And am thankful now for the certain truth That only the sweet remains. And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade, And I see no face at my library door; For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, She is viewless forevermore. But whether she came as a faint perfume, Or whether a spirit in stole of white, I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, She has been with my soul to-night.

Ay, an old story, yet it might Have truth in it—who knows? Of the heroine's breaking down one night Just ere the curtain rose. And suddenly, when fear and doubt Had shaken every heart, There stepped an unknown actress out, To take the heroine's part. But oh, the magic of her face, And oh the songs she sung, And oh the rapture of the place, And oh the flowers they flung! But she never stooped: they lay all night, As when she turned away, And left them—and the saddest light Shone in her eyes of grey. She gave a smile in glancing round, And sighed, one fancied, then— But never they knew where she was bound, Or saw her face again, But the old prompter, grey and frail, They heard him murmur low, "It only could be Meg Coverdale, Died thirty years ago, "In that old part, who took the town; And she was fair, as fair As when they shut the coffin down On the gleam of her golden hair; "And it wasn't hard to understand How a lass as fair as she Could never rest in the Promised Land, Where none but angels be."

After all the house is dark, And the last soft step is still, And the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow Flickers on the window sill— When the village lights are out, And the watch-dogs all asleep, And the misty silver radiance Makes the shade look black and deep— When, so silent is the night, Not a dead leaf dares to fall, And I only hear the death-watch Ticking, ticking in the wall— When no hidden mouse dares gnaw At the silence dead and dumb, And the very air seems waiting For a Something that should come— Suddenly, there stands my guest, Whence he came I cannot see; Not a door has swung before him, Not a hand touched latch or key, Not a rustle stirred the air; Yet he stands there, brave and mute, In his eyes a look of greeting, In his hand an old-time flute. Then, with all the courtly grace Of the old Colonial school, From the curtain-shadowed corner Forth he draws a three-legged stool— (Ah, it was not there before! Search as closely as I may, I can never, never find it When I look for it by day!) Places it beside my bed, And while silently I gaze Spell-bound by his mystic presence, Seats himself thereon and plays. Gracious, stately, grave and tall, Always dressed from crown to toe In the quaint elaborate fashion Of a hundred years ago. Doublet, small-clothes, silk-clocked hose; Wears my midnight melodist, Snowy ruffles in his bosom, Snowy ruffles at his wrist. Silver buckle at his knee, Silver buckle on his shoe; Powdered hair smoothed back and plaited In a stiff old-fashioned queue. If I stir he vanishes; If I speak he flits away; If I lie in utter silence, He will sit for hours and play; Play old wailing minor airs, Melancholy, wild and slow, Such, mayhap, as pleased the maidens Of a hundred years ago. All in vain I wait to hear Ghostly histories of wrong Unconfessed and unforgiven, Unavenged and suffered long; Not a story does he tell, Not a single word he says— Only sits and gazes at me Steadily, and plays and plays. Who is he, my midnight guest? Wherefore does he haunt me so; Coming from the misty shadows Of a hundred years ago?

See! He trails his toes Through the long streaks of moonlight, And the nails of his fingers glitter; They claw and flash among the tree-tops. His lips suck at my open window, And his breath creeps about my body And lies in pools under my knees. I can see his mouth sway and wobble, Sticking itself against the window-jambs, But the moonlight is bright on the floor, Without a shadow. Hark! A hare is strangling in the forest, And the wind tears a shutter from the wall.

Some one is always sitting there, In the little green orchard; Even when the sun is high In noon's unclouded sky, And faintly droning goes The bee from rose to rose, Some one in shadow is sitting there, In the little green orchard. Yes, and when twilight's falling softly On the little green orchard; When the gray dew distils And every flower cup fills; When the last blackbird says, "What—what!" and goes her way—ssh! I have heard voices calling softly In the little green orchard. Not that I am afraid of being there, In the little green orchard; Why, when the moon's been bright, Shedding her lonesome light, And moths like ghosties come, And the horned snail leaves home: I've stayed there, whispering and listening there, In the little green orchard. Only it's strange to be feeling there, In the little green orchard; Whether you paint or draw, Dig, hammer, chop or saw, When you are most alone, All but the silence gone ... Some one is waiting and watching there, In the little green orchard.

What are you, fireflies, That come as daylight dies? Are you the old, old dead, Creeping through the long grass, To see the green leaves move And feel the light wind pass? The larkspur in my garden Is a sea of rose and blue, The white moth is a ghost ship Drifting through. The shadows fall like lilacs Raining from a garden sky, Pollen laden bees go home, Bird songs die. The honeysuckle breaks a flask, And a breeze, on pleasure bent, Catches in her little hands The sharp scent. In the darkness and the dew Come the little, flying flames, Are they the forgotten dead, Without names? Did they love the leaves and wind, Grass and gardens long ago With a love that draws them home Where things grow? For an hour with green leaves, Love immortal leaped to flame, From the earth into the night Old hearts came. What are you, fireflies, That come as daylight dies?

I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high—higher than most— And the green gate was locked. And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone— I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on. By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among. I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do—and oh! She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow! She bent above my favorite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled—there was no hint Of sadness in her face. She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go. And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused—then opened and passed through A gate that once was there.

Between the moss and stone The lonely lilies rise; Wasted and overgrown The tangled garden lies. Weeds climb about the stoop And clutch the crumbling walls; The drowsy grasses droop— The night wind falls. The place is like a wood; No sign is there to tell Where rose and iris stood That once she loved so well. Where phlox and asters grew, A leafless thornbush stands, And shrubs that never knew Her tender hands.... Over the broken fence The moonbeams trail their shrouds; Their tattered cerements Cling to the gauzy clouds, In ribbons frayed and thin— And startled by the light Silence shrinks deeper in The depths of night. Useless lie spades and rakes; Rust's on the garden-tools. Yet, where the moonlight makes Nebulous silver pools A ghostly shape is cast— Something unseen has stirred.... Was it a breeze that passed? Was it a bird? Dead roses lift their heads Out of a grassy tomb; From ruined pansy-beds A thousand pansies bloom. The gate is opened wide— The garden that has been Now blossoms like a bride.... Who entered in?

Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon The sea-mists swoon: Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow Goes winging slow: Dim fields the sower never sows, Or reaps or mows: And near the sea a ghostly house of stone Where all is old and lone. A garden, falling in decay, Where statues gray Peer, broken, out of tangled weed And thorny seed; Satyr and Nymph, that once made love By walk and grove: And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mould, A sundial, lichen-old. Like some sad life bereft, To musing left, The house stands: love and youth Both gone, in sooth: But still it sits and dreams: And round it seems Some memory of the past, still young and fair, Haunting each crumbling stair. And suddenly one dimly sees, Come through the trees, A woman, like a wild moss-rose: A man, who goes Softly: and by the dial They kiss a while: Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan, And they like ghosts are gone.

The three ghosts on the lonely road, Spake each to one another, "Whence came that stain upon your mouth No lifted hand can cover?" "From eating of forbidden fruit, Brother, my brother." The three ghosts on the sunless road, Spake each to one another, "Whence came that red burn on your foot No dust or ash may cover?" "I stamped a neighbor's hearth-flame out, Brother, my brother." The three ghosts on the windless road, Spake each to one another, "Whence came that blood upon thy hand No other hand may cover?" "From breaking of a woman's heart, Brother, my brother." "Yet on the earth, clean men we walked, Glutton and thief and lover, White flesh and fair, it hid our stains, That no man might discover," Naked the soul goes up to God, Brother, my brother.