Ghost house

Ghost house
What if you are death and are able to still write poetry? There is a chance, this will lead to a poem such as Ghost house. This poem is written by Robert Frost.

What if you are death and are able to still write poetry? There is a chance, this will lead to a poem such as Ghost house. This poem is written by Robert Frost.

Robert Frost
Robert Frost
Source

About Robert Frost

Robert Frost (born as Robert Lee Frost, March 26 1874) received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry four times. Frost wrote about what he saw in nature and especially the western part of the United States (New England). He did not only write poetry. During his life he wrote several plays.

His poetry cannot just be considered as simple. In his poems, he wrote about deep philosophical and social subjects.

The poems Stopping by woods on a snowy evening and The road not taken are considered as his most important poems. There is so much more, that he wrote. He received the Congressional Gold Medal (1960) for his work, just three years before he died. One year later, in 1961, he was named poet laureate of Vermont. Frost died on January 29 1963.

About the poem

This poem tells us the story of someone, who is in a haunted house. But, is this person still alive? Or is this person perhaps a ghost?

Frost wrote this poem in his own, special way. A descriptive poem, that makes the house almost come alive. There is a sense of melancholy as it comes to this house. This is a house that used to know better times. Now, only decay remains.

 

Ghost house

 

Ghost house

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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