Читать книгу Cross Roads - Margaret E. Sangster - Страница 10

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It stands neglected, silent, far from the ways of men,

A lonely little cottage beside a lonely glen;

And, dreaming there, I saw it when sunset's golden

rays

Had touched it with the glory of other, sweeter days.

They say the house is haunted, and—well, it is, I

guess,

For every empty window just aches with loneliness;

With loneliness that tortures and memory that flays;

Ah, yes, the house is haunted with ghosts of other

days.

The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrow

stair,

And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayer

Steals out, and then a love song, and then a bugle

call,

And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall.

The story of the old house that stands beside the

glen?

That story is forgotten by every one; but when

The house is touched and softened by sunset's golden

rays,

I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts of

sweeter days.