The City Dead-House

By the City Dead-House, by the gate,
As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor,
I curious pause for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought;
Her corpse they deposit unclaim'd it lies on the damp brick pavement;
The divine woman, her body I see the Body I look on it alone,
That house once full of passion and beauty all else I notice not;
Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors morbific impress me;
But the house alone that wondrous house that delicate fair house that ruin!
That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built!
Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted or all the old high-spired cathedrals;
That little house alone, more than them all poor, desperate house!
Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul!
Unclaim'd, avoided house! take one breath from my tremulous lips;
Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you,
Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush'd!
House of life erewhile talking and laughing but ah, poor house! dead, even then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd house but dead, dead, dead.

Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman was an American poet, essayist, and journalist, often considered one of the most influential poets in the American canon. His work broke the boundaries of poetic form and is known for its free verse style. Whitman’s most famous collection, 'Leaves of Grass', celebrates democracy, nature, love, and friendship. He had a significant impact on later literary traditions and is often referred to as the father of free verse.

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English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Dead House.

When the clock hath ceased to tick
    Soul-like in the gloomy hall;
When the latch no more doth click
    Tongue-like in the red peach-wall;
When no more come sounds of play,
    Mice nor children romping roam,
Then looks down the eye of day
    On a dead house, not a home!

But when, like an old sun's ghost,
    Haunts her vault the spectral moon;
When earth's margins all are lost,
    Melting shapes nigh merged in swoon,
Then a sound--hark! there again!--
    No, 'tis not a nibbling mouse!
'Tis a ghost, unseen of men,
    Walking through the bare-floored house!

And with lightning on the stair
    To that silent upper room,
With the thunder-shaken air
    Sudden gleaming into gloom,
With a frost-wind whistling round,
    F...

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A Street Of Ghosts.

The drowsy day, with half-closed eyes,
Dreams in this quaint forgotten street,
That, like some old-world wreckage, lies,
Left by the sea's receding beat,
Far from the city's restless feet.

Abandoned pavements, that the trees'
Huge roots have wrecked, whose flagstones feel
No more the sweep of draperies;
And sunken curbs, whereon no wheel
Grinds, nor the gallant's spur-bound heel.

Old houses, walled with rotting brick,
Thick-creepered, dormered, weather-vaned,
Like withered faces, sad and sick,
Stare from each side, all broken paned,
With battered doors the rain has stained.

And though the day be white with heat,
Their ancient yards are dim and cold;
Where now the toad makes its retreat,
'Mid flower-pots green-caked with mold,
A...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Haunted House

I.

The shadows sit and stand about its door
Like uninvited guests and poor;
And all the long, hot summer day
The grating locust dins its roundelay
In one old sycamore.
The squirrel leaves upon its rotting roof,
In empty hulls, its tracks;
And in its clapboard cracks
The spider weaves a windy woof;
Its cells the mud-wasp packs.
The she-fox whelps upon its floor;
The owlet roosts above its door;
And where the musty mosses run,
The freckled snake basks in the sun.

II.

The children of what fathers sleep
Beneath these melancholy pines?
The slow slugs crawl among their graves where creep
The doddered poison-vines.
The orchard, near the meadow deep,
Lifts up decrepit arms,
Gray-lichened in a withering heap.
No sap ...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Old House.

Quaint and forgotten, by an unused road,
An old house stands: around its doors the dense
    Blue iron-weeds grow high;
The chipmunks make a highway of its fence;
And on its sunken flagstones slug and toad
    Silent as lichens lie.

The timid snake upon its hearth's cool sand
Sleeps undisturbed; the squirrel haunts its roof;
    And in the clapboard sides
Of closets, dim with many a spider woof,
Like the uncertain tapping of a hand,
    The beetle-borer hides.

Above its lintel, under mossy eaves,
The mud-wasps build their cells; and in the floor
    Of its neglected porch
The black bees nest. Through each deserted door,
Vague as a phantom's footsteps, steal the leaves,
    And dropped cones of the larch.

But come with me when sunset...

Madison Julius Cawein

Haunted Houses

All houses wherein men have lived and died
    Are haunted houses.    Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
    With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
    Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
    A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table, than the hosts
    Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
    As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
    The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
    All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
    Ow...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Old House By The Mere.

Five rotten gables look upon
Wan rotting roses and rank weeds,
Old iron gates on posts of stone,
Dim dingles where the vermin breeds.
Five rotten gables black appear
Above bleak yews and cedars sad,
And thence they see the sleepy mere
In lazy lilies clad.

At morn the slender dragon-fly,
A burnished ray of light, darts past;
The knightly bee comes charging by
Winding a surly blast.
At noon amid the fervid leaves
The quarreling insects gossip hot,
And thro' the grass the spider weaves
A weft with silver shot.

At eve the hermit cricket rears
His vesper song in shrillful shrieks;
The bat a blund'ring voyage steers
Beneath the sunset's streaks.
The slimy worm gnaws at the bud,
The Katydid talks dreamily;
The sullen owl in m...

Madison Julius Cawein