Welcome to The Witching Hour.... 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. 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; 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 House Fear Always - I tell you this they learned - Always at night when they returned To the lonely house from far away To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray, They learned to rattle the lock and key To give whatever might chance to be Warning and time to be off in flight: And preferring the out-to the in-door night They learned to leave the house-door wide Until they had lit the lamp inside. Robert Frost The Bat By day the bat is cousin to the mouse; He likes the attic of an aging house. His fingers make a hat about his head. His pulse is so slow we think him dead. He loops in crazy figures half the night Among the trees that face the corner light. But when he brushes up against a screen, We are afraid of what our eyes have seen: For something is amiss or out of place When mice with wings can wear a human face. -Theodore Roethke