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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=365689" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Cliff House</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the sun has set in the wintertime<br>And I'm all alone in this grey old house, <br>I bolt the shutters and pull the blinds<br>And set a spark to the candlewax; <br>The wind runs howling about the eaves, <br>The shutters chatter, the wind-cock spins, <br>The breakers clatter and clash below<br>As my world returns to me, widdershins.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's then that I hear my mother's voice<br>So faint at first in the storm outside, <br>She sighs and moans, and I hear her plead<br>The length and breadth of the countryside.<br>Her voice soughs out from the aspens near, <br>Quivers in ferns and rocks, as if<br>No year that followed has spent her need<br>For still she sobs at the edge of the cliff.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her voice comes whispering under the door<br>I plug my ears and I cry out loud: <br>'Leave me, mother, you worked your will, <br>You earned your fee of a graveyard shroud! '<br>Still she mutters and moans for him<br>The shape that darkened our outer door, <br>Whenever my father was not around<br>I'd hear his steps on the oaken floor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then I'd be sent to my lonely room<br>And told to play as she locked me in, <br>Her eyes were bright and her tone was gay<br>As she breathless, left for her wayward sin.<br>I heard them laugh in the room above, <br>The steady beat as they rocked the bed, <br>And then he'd bellow, and she would scream<br>As I pulled the covers right over my head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On winter nights she would pace the floor, <br>Impatient then, and she'd peer outside, <br>Men with torches were on the beach<br>And I'd hear them curse at the rising tide.<br>But then I'd peek through my window shades<br>To see them marching up over the hill, <br>Carrying barrels and flagons of wine<br>To the village, seen from my window-sill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She caught me once and she screamed in fright, <br>'You never, never must look, you see! <br>Those men are phantoms, they're only ghosts<br>From wrecks aground on the outer key.'<br>Then later came the knock at the door, <br>I saw the shadow, the wide brimmed hat, <br>And as she turned the key in the lock, <br>I heard her whisper, and sigh: 'Oh Jack! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I asked her once who the stranger was<br>Who came so late, it was awful queer, <br>'It's always dark when he comes to call, <br>He never comes when my father's here.'<br>My mother grimaced, and turned quite pale<br>Then said, 'he brings us our victuals, son, <br>Tea and coffee, sugar and salt, <br>And a bushel of wheat and barleycorn.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One day, a team of Revenue Men<br>Were waiting there in the cove below, <br>A gale was blowing, the breakers crashed, <br>I woke when the early rooster crowed.<br>Then lights and men in a mad melee<br>And a gun went off and a scream of pain, <br>I watched as they marched them over the hill, <br>A line of phantoms encased in chain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My mother ran from the open door, <br>Out to the windswept cliff she fled, <br>I heard her moan as she looked on down<br>At the figure that lay on the beach, stone dead.<br>My father followed her, looking grim<br>As he stood behind in the driving rain, <br>But mother fell to her knees, and wailed<br>Like a banshee whirled in a pit of pain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I left the window, I crossed the room, <br>I took the stairs at a run that day, <br>The door lay open to morning gloom<br>I raced on out in the pouring rain.<br>But over toward the edge of the cliff<br>I could see my father, looking down, <br>Mother lay on the beach below, while<br>All my father could do was frown.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'll never know if she jumped that day<br>To join the shape that lay dead on the beach, <br>Or whether my father pushed her there, <br>A love long dead, that was out of reach.<br>He cried no tears, that I recall<br>When they buried them both in a hillside grave, <br>But followed them after a year and a day, <br>Slashed his throat in the old church nave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Years have gone, and I prowl the house, <br>Perched on the edge of this dreadful cliff, <br>I dare not leave, for my mother's cries<br>Blow in and out from the storm swept reef.<br>But late on wintry nights the sound<br>Of those heavy steps on the oaken floor, <br>A shadow passes my room at night<br>And my mother sighs, and I hear no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=David+Lewis+Paget">David Lewis Paget</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=365689" data-title="Cliff House de David Lewis Paget" data-description="When the sun has set in the wintertime
And I'm all alone in this grey old house, 
I bolt the shutters and pull the blinds
And set a spark to the candlewax; 
The wind runs howling about the eaves, 
The shutters chatter, the wind-cock spins, 
The br..."></div>
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