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Deserted

THE old house leans upon a tree
 
  Like some old man upon a staff:
 
The night wind in its ancient porch
 
  Sounds like a hollow laugh.
 
  
The heaven is wrapped in flying clouds,
         
  As grandeur cloaks itself in gray:
 
The starlight flitting in and out,
 
  Glints like a lanthorn ray.
 
  
The dark is full of whispers. Now
 
  A fox-hound howls: and through the night,
  
Like some old ghost from out its grave,
 
  The moon comes, misty white.
Madison Cawein [1865-1914]