“I hear the piano playing —
Just as a ghost might play.”
“— O, but what are you saying?
There's no piano to-day;
Their old one was sold and broken;
Years past it went amiss.”
“— I heard it, or should n't have spoken:
A strange house, this!
“I catch some undertone here,
From some one out of sight.”
“— Impossible; we are alone here,
And shall be through the night.”
“— The parlour-door — what stirred it?”
“— No one: no soul's in range.”
“— But, anyhow, I heard it,
And it seems strange!
“Seek my own room I cannot —
A figure is on the stair!”
“— What figure? Nay, I scan not
Any one lingering there.
A bough outside is waving,
And that's its shade by the moon.”
“— Well, all is strange! I am craving
Strength to leave soon.”
“— Ah, maybe you've some vision
Of showings beyond our sphere;
Some sight, sense, intuition
Of what once happened here?
The house is old; they've hinted
It once held two love-thralls,
And they may have imprinted
Their dreams on its walls?
“They were — I think‘ twas told me —
Queer in their works and ways;
The teller would often hold me
With weird tales of those days.
Some folk can not abide here,
But we — we do not care
Who loved, laughed, wept, or died here,
Knew joy, or despair.”