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.
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