The House in the Woods

Deep in the old pine woods

Where moss like a rug is spread,

Stands a house with crumbling walls

And a roof of rusty red.

Grass sprouts in every chink;

The eaves are filmed with green.

If I crossed the threshold worn,

I should nevermore be seen.

For who but a witch would live

Where woods press tree on tree?

So I scurry by that place

Lest a spell be laid on me.