Edith Nesbit

This Desirable Mansion

THE long white windows blankly stare
    Across the sodden, tangled grass,
Weed-covered are the pathways where
    No footsteps ever pass;
No whispers wake, no kisses die,
    No laughter thrills the dwindling flowers,
Only the night hears sigh on sigh
    From ghosts of long-dead hours.


None come here now to laugh or weep;
    The spider spins on stair and hall,
And round the windows shadows creep,
    And loathly creatures crawl.
Cold is the hearth; the door is fast;
    No guest the silent threshold sees
Save ghosts out of the happy past,--
    And one who is as these.