FROM out the wood I watched them shine,—
The windows of the haunted house,
Now ruddy as enchanted wine,
Now dark as flittermouse.
There went a thin voice piping airs
Along the grey and crooked walks,—
A garden of thistledown and tares,
Bright leaves, and giant stalks.
The twilight rain shone at its gates.
Where long-leaved grass in shadow grew;
And black in silence to her mates
A voiceless raven flew.
Lichen and moss the lone stones greened,
Green paths led lightly to its door,
Keen from her hair the spider leaned.
And dusk to darkness wore.
Amidst the sedge a whisper ran,
The West shut down a heavy eye,
And like last tapers, few and wan,