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On this breezy October morn, I walk
in the swift shadows of cloud-cursing rooks,
watching the world wake on the horizon.
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 doorway, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.
Whose umbrellas are we talking about?
Before the evening party
She: ‘Why do you take away the umbrellas from the hall?Are you afraid our guests will steal them?’
He: 'No, but they might recognise them'
Post edited by Lynne on