The only dower she brought away Was the terrible tale she told; And our children bred in a humble home Are marked with the hate of gold. THE HAUNTED HOUSE Upon a little rise it stands alone, Dark and forbidding, where three crossroads meet; The dim, fierce windows frown upon the street From walls with mould and mosses overgrown. Pink hollyhocks group idly at the door, And bend above the latch with prying eyes, Or shake their heads and whisper, gossipwise, Secrets that trouble living hearts no more. The rusty hinges give a warning scream; The jealous panels shudder as they swing. About my face the dusty cobwebs cling, Soft as the shadow-fingers of a dream. There is a window looking to the sea; The small, cracked panes are blurred as if with tears. Here long ago a young bride felt the fears That even now creep coldly over me. Here trembling still she sat, yet made no moan, But felt an unseen presence fill the door, And heard a light step steal across the floor, And shrank beneath a touch that chilled her own.... Once more I pass the hall, the dim oak stair. A sudden gust breathes down, a tremulous sigh; A silken rustle lightly whispers by; A fragrance as of roses fills the air. ROSE PERENNIAL The worn gray slab yet lies before What once was a thrifty farmer’s door; Now roofless cellar and scattered stones Show skeleton hopes with time-picked bones. Here backed against a crumbling wall Still blooms at bay, unpruned and tall, A soil-disdaining moss-rose bush, The delicate buds in faintest flush, Clutched by the brambles and woodbine, Whose envious fingers tear and twine. There was the huge barn; here the yard, Where the grim farmer labored hard From dawn to dark, and never knew A dream beyond the crops he grew, The stock he raised, the silver store Under the loose board in the floor. To and fro, to and fro, The feet of his little wife would go, All day long and half the night, Up a flight and down a flight; Pantry to kitchen, pen to barn, Cellar to garret with loom of yarn; In to the babies, out to the men, Down to the pasture and back again. Farms were never planned, you find, To save the steps of womenkind. One can trudge and drudge through a long life’s course, If she discover a hidden source To seek when the spirit is faint and dry.