Ghost House

He is happy in society of his choosing.
 I DWELL in a lonely house I know  That vanished many a summer ago,  And left no trace but the cellar walls,  And a cellar in which the daylight falls,  And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.  O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield  The woods come back to the mowing field;  The orchard tree has grown one copse  Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;  The footpath down to the well is healed.   I dwell with a strangely aching heart  In that vanished abode there far apart  On that disused and forgotten road  That has no dust-bath now for the toad.  Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;   The whippoorwill is coming to shout  And hush and cluck and flutter about:  I hear him begin far enough away  Full many a time to say his say  Before he arrives to say it out.   It is under the small, dim, summer star.  I know not who these mute folk are  Who share the unlit place with me-  Those stones out under the low-limbed tree  Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.   They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,  Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,-  With none among them that ever sings,  And yet, in view of how many things,  As sweet companions as might be had.