I Dwell In A Lonely House I Know That Vanished Many A Summer Ago, And Left No Trace But The Cellar Walls, And A Cellar In Which The Daylight Falls, And The Purple-Stemmed Wild Raspberries Grow. O'Er Ruined Fences The Grape-Vines Shield The Woods Come Back To The Mowing Field; The Orchard Tree Has Grown One Copse Of New Wood And Old Where The Woodpecker Chops; The Footpath Down To The Well Is Healed. I Dwell With A Strangely Aching Heart In That Vanished Abode There Far Apart On That Disused And Forgotten Road That Has No Dust-Bath Now For The Toad. Night Comes; The Black Bats Tumble And Dart; The Whippoorwill Is Coming To Shout And Hush And Cluck And Flutter About: I Hear Him Begin Far Enough Away Full Many A Time To Say His Say Before He Arrives To Say It Out. It Is Under The Small, Dim, Summer Star. I Know Not Who These Mute Folk Are Who Share The Unlit Place With Me Those Stones Out Under The Low-Limbed Tree Doubtless Bear Names That The Mosses Mar. They Are Tireless Folk, But Slow And Sad, Though Two, Close-Keeping, Are Lass And Lad, With None Among Them That Ever Sings, And Yet, In View Of How Many Things, As Sweet Companions As Might Be Had.