HAUNTED

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,
  The watch-stars kindled in the sky.

THE RAVEN’S TOMB

“Build me my tomb,” the Raven said,
  “Within the dark yew-tree,
So in the Autumn yewberries
  Sad lamps may burn for me. 
Summon the haunted beetle,
  From twilight bud and bloom,
To drone a gloomy dirge for me
  At dusk above my tomb. 
Beseech ye too the glowworm
  To rear her cloudy flame,
Where the small, flickering bats resort,
  Whistling in tears my name. 
Let the round dew a whisper make,
  Welling on twig and thorn;
And only the grey cock at night
  Call through his silver horn. 
And you, dear sisters, don your black
  For ever and a day,
To show how true a raven
  In his tomb is laid away.”

THE CHRISTENING

The bells chime clear,
Soon will the sun behind the hills sink down;
Come, little Ann, your baby brother dear
Lies in his christening-gown.

His godparents,
Are all across the fields stepped on before,
And wait beneath the crumbling monuments,
This side the old church door.

Your mammie dear
Leans frail and lovely on your daddie’s arm;
Watching her chick, ’twixt happiness and fear,
Lest he should come to harm.

All to be blest
Full soon in the clear heavenly water, he
Sleeps on unwitting of it, his little breast
Heaving so tenderly.

I carried you,
My little Ann, long since on this same quest,
And from the painted windows a pale hue
Lit golden on your breast;

And then you woke,
Chill as the holy water trickled down,
And, weeping, cast the window a strange look,
Half smile, half infant frown.

I scarce could hear
The shrill larks singing in the green meadows,
’Twas summertide, and, budding far and near,
The hedges thick with rose.

And now you’re grown
A little girl, and this same helpless mite
Is come like such another bud half-grown,
Out of the wintry night.