Tuesday, October 30, 2012

On Not Knowing Where To Go

 

 

Ghost House

the joys of being pure at heart

by Robert Frost


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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