Poetry Friday: Ghost House – Robert Frost

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Poetry Friday is hosted by Linda @ Teacher Dance

Halloween! My sixth graders have written 100 word “spooky stories” to scare the daylights out of their classmates – and I have found a suitably fright- inspiring poem from an unexpected source: Robert Frost.

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Ghost House  Robert Frost

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.

Robert Frost


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7 thoughts on “Poetry Friday: Ghost House – Robert Frost

  1. I don’t remember ever having read this Frost poem before. It’s lovely paired with the photo. I like this line, “That has no dust-bath now for the toad.” What a surprising little detail.

  2. Wonderful that you’re writing stories. Max’s students are drawing haunted houses in charcoal & then poems to accompany them-such fun to do these ‘scary’ things. I will share this poem with them, too. I don’t think I’ve ever read it either, so melancholy, isn’t it? “Those stones out under the low-limbed tree/Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.” He writes these stories so beautifully. Thanks, Tara.

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