THE STRANGE HOUSE

“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.”