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by Cristel Hastings
published in WEIRD TALES, November 1927
Bathed in mystery and moonlight,
Wistfully it stands
At the end of a lonely, winding road
Where cobwebs hang in strands
Of dusty lace an old ghost hung
Before a sagging door
And winds go moaning through the rooms
With fog from down the moor.
Never a light--nor sound, nor laugh--
Never a footfall--wait!
What was that?--did I hear a step
Down by the creaking gate?
Echoes resounding in empty halls--
Shadows that spring like cats--
Sudden drafts that seem like breaths,
And a fluttering of bats.
Eery tenants--ghosts of old--
Loves and griefs--and tears--
Underneath a leaking roof
Haunting mildewed years.
Straggling roses climb the porches
Hiding broken panes,
Though their roots be dry and fainting,
Waiting for the rains.
Bathed in silent, moonlit fragrance,
I hear the old ghosts talk--
Must be wind in that old maple
Down the lonely walk.
Bats, and broken, paneless windows--
Creaking shutters--weeds--
Loneliness and sobbing wind ghosts,
Wait for the friend it needs.