THE old house leans upon a tree
  Like some old man upon a staff:
The night wind in its ancient porch
  Sounds like a hollow laugh.
The heaven is wrapped in flying clouds,
  As grandeur cloaks itself in gray:
The starlight flitting in and out,
  Glints like a lanthorn ray.
The dark is full of whispers. Now
  A fox-hound howls: and through the night,
Like some old ghost from out its grave,
  The moon comes, misty white.
Madison Cawein [1865-1914]