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Empty House

by Cristel Hastings

published in WEIRD TALES, August 1938

Its windows stare like haunt and tear-dimmed eyes—

Perhaps awaiting one who comes no more,

Or listening for a voice that once was gay

Down avenues where mocking winds now roar.

An apple tree, long stranger to the shears

That once, in eager pride, pruned through the years—

Its slender twigs leaned low—a broken thing

Whose fitful blossoms thirsted dewy tears.

A door sags wide, like empty arms that yearn

For something they once held and loved, and lost,

And all the while the fitful wind moans low,

And dry leaves stir, with restless memories tossed.

Alone, aloof, this old house stands and yearns

For half-remembered songs that once it heard

In glowing warmth and sweet companionship—

But now its only song comes from a bird.

That, and the moaning sob of fog-wet winds,

And trees that sigh and lash in frenzied pain

Their arms in supplication to night skies—

And know the bitter tears that are in rain.