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| THE HOUSE is haunted by old trees. | |
| So close they stand, and still, | |
| No yellow sunlight seeps through their shingled leaves | |
| And drips down on the sill. | |
| Beech with the mist on his flanks, | 5 |
| Pine whose old voice is a muffled bell, | |
| Gaunt, wan-bodied poplar | |
| That has a bitter smell, | |
| Tapping elm and oak-tree— | |
| They stoop and peer within | 10 |
| By the side of the twisted apple-tree, | |
| His grey hands under his chin. | |
| They do nothing but peer and haunt through the windows | |
| That are dead as the eyes of the drowned; | |
| And listen until their silence | 15 |
| Makes a strangeness all around. | |
| Then suddenly they quiver and shake at the wind | |
| Their arms that are furrowed as river sands, | |
| And whisper “Did you see?” to one another | |
| And beckon to one another with their hands; | 20 |
| And they laugh a hungry laughter | |
| There is no one understands. | |
| |
| By night they creep close to the windows, | |
| As quiet as grey lichens creep, | |
| And pick at the catches with their fingers— | 25 |
| How they can get in, and peep | |
| To see their own shadows thronging | |
| The quiet house of sleep. | |
| Yes, they look in at their own shadows | |
| Stealing up by the stair | 30 |
| To the closed doors of the chambers | |
| And listening there. | |
| They watch how their shadows with pulseless fingers | |
| Noiselessly push and strain, | |
| And beat their breasts on the dark panels | 35 |
| To open them, in vain; | |
| And how the thin moonlight trickles round them | |
| Creeping down by the banisters again. | |
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