Eloise Robinson

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,

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

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

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;

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—

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

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

To open them, in vain;

And how the thin moonlight trickles round them

Creeping down by the banisters again.