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Mystery

by Cristel Hastings

published in WEIRD TALES, May 1932

There are shadows creeping, crawling

Through the forest, through the wood,

And the low night winds are sobbing

Where a grayish house once stood

With its air of age and silence,

Windows shuttered to the sun,

With its creaking gate and stairways

Where the furtive shadows run.

All is loneliness and silence:

All is dark with mystery—

Winds keep searching, spend and breathless,

Till the fainting sunbeams flee.

All they find are strange blue silence,

Memories and weeds and sighs

That go echoing like whispers

Somewhere to the moon-mad skies.

But the shadows keep on creeping,

Crawling early, sprawling late—

While the wind runs on in terror

Like a phantom through the gate.