‘Tis a grove-circled dwelling

     Set close to a hill,

Where the branches are telling

     Strange legends of ill;

Over timbers so old

     That they breathe of the dead,

Crawl the vines, green and cold,

     By strange nourishment fed;

In the gardens are growing

     Tall blossoms and fair,

Each pallid bloom throwing

     Perfume on the air;

But the afternoon sun

     With its shining red rays

Makes the picture loom dun

     On the curious gaze,

And above the sweet scent of the blossoms

     rise odours of numberless days.

The rank grasses are waving

     On terrace and lawn,

Dim memories sav’ring

     Of things that have gone;

The stones of the walks

     Are encrusted and wet,

And a strange spirit stalks

     When the red sun has set,

And the soul of the watcher is fill’d

     with faint pictures he fain would forget.

It was in the hot Junetime

     I stood by that scene,

When the gold rays of noontime

     Beat bright on the green.

But I shiver’d with cold,

     Groping feebly for light,

As a picture unroll’d —

     And my age-spanning sight

Saw the time I had been there

     before flash like fulgury out of the night.