Of the dead house shadowed us with, and thence Turning, my heart was pierced with more intense Suggestion of a mystical dismay, As in the brilliance of the summer day We faced the vast gray barn. The house was old, Though so well kept, as age by years is told In our young land; but the barn, gray and vast, Stood new and straight and strong--all battened fast At every opening; and where once the mow Had yawned wide-windowed, on the sheathing now A Cross was nailed, the bigness of a man, Aslant from left to right, athwart the span, And painted black as paint could make it. Hushed, I stood, while manifold conjecture rushed To this point and to that point, and then burst In the impotent questionings rejected first. What did it mean? Ah, that no one could tell. Who put it there? That was unknown as well. Was there no legend? My friend knew of none. No neighborhood story? He had sought for one In vain. Did he imagine it accident, With nothing really implied or meant By the boards set in that way? It might be, But I could answer that as well as he. Then (desperately) what did he guess it was: Something of purpose, or without a cause Other than chance? He slowly shook his head, And with his gaze fixed on the symbol said: "We have quite ceased from guessing or surmising, For all our several and joint devising Has left us finally where I must leave you. But now I think it is your part to do Yourself some guessing. I hoped you might bring A fresh mind to the riddle's unraveling. Come!" And thus challenged I could not deny The sort of right he had to have me try; And yielding, I began--instinctively Proceeding by exclusion: "We agree It was not put there as a pious charm To keep the abandoned property from harm? The owner could have been no Catholic; And yet it was no sacrilegious trick To make folks wonder; and it was not chance Assuredly that set those boards askance In that shape, or before or after, so Painted them to that coloring of woe. Do you suppose, then, that it could have been Some secret sorrow or some secret sin, That tried to utter or to expiate Itself in that way: some unhappy hate Turned to remorse, or some life-rending grief That could not find in years or tears relief? Who lived here last?" "Ah," my friend made reply, "You know as much concerning that as I. All I could tell is what those gravestones tell, And they have told it all to you as well. The names, the dates, the curious epitaphs At whose quaint phrase one either sighs or laughs, Just as one's heart or head happens to be Hollow or not, are there for each to see. But I believe they have nothing to reveal: No wrong to publish, no shame to conceal." "And yet that Cross!" I turned at his reply, Fixing the silent symbol with my eye, Insistently. "And you consent," I said, "To leave the enigma uninterpreted?"