By day the room is hot and still.

A summer hush, broke only by the hum

Of garden bees, comes o'er the sill

Along with streaming sun, that falls

On little colored rugs and makes a spot

Of light against the ticking clock.

table with it's lamp and tiny pot

Of flowers, stands nearby

The silent harpsichord, whose keys

Make tinkling music soft,

As then the gently stirring breeze

Blows through a hanging thing of glass.

In all, a bright and peaceful room

By day, where one could spend

A drowsy hour at height of noon

With books, by window wide.

But when at night the lights are gone

And only pale moonshine creeps in

To change the substance and the form

Of every piece of furniture, and make

Strange shadows on the wall,

And cast up shapes all black and still,

Cowering and changing, stooped and tall,

And the ticking of the clock but seems

To emphasize the silence, then

The room is not so nice a place.

Are shadows real, and when

At night they creep about the wall,

Are they the things that make the room so still

By day, and only come at night

When moon comes up behind the hill?

Or is it that I fear too much

And these are just the ghosts

Of ones who know the room is years agone,

When they were young like me, and most

Of all deserve to see the place

If but by night, for sake of mem'ries past?

I do not know, but think that I,

When lamps are out, will stay upstairs

And curl myself in bed in slumber fast.