| |
| THEY’VE torn the old house down, that stood, | |
| Like some kind mother, in this place, | |
| Hugged by its orchard and its wood, | |
| Two sturdy children, strong of race. | |
| |
| The shrubs, which snowed their blossoms on | 5 |
| The walks wide-stretching from its doors | |
| Like friendly arms, are dead and gone, | |
| And over all a grand house soars. | |
| |
| Within its front no welcome lies, | |
| But pride’s aloofness; wealth, that stares | 10 |
| From windows, cold as haughty eyes, | |
| The arrogance of new-made heirs. | |
| |
| Its very flowers breathe of cast; | |
| And even the Springtide seems estranged; | |
| In that stiff garden, caught, held fast, | 15 |
| All her wild beauty trimmed and changed. | |
| |
| ’T is not the Spring that once I knew, | |
| Who made a glory of her face, | |
| And, robed in shimmering light and dew, | |
| Moved to wild music in this place. | 20 |
| |
| How fair she walked here with her Hours, | |
| Pouring out colors and perfumes, | |
| And, with her bosom heaped with flowers, | |
| Climbed by the rose-vines to its rooms. | |
| |
| Or round the old porch, ’mid the trees, | 25 |
| Fluttered a flute of bluebird song; | |
| Or, murmuring with a myriad bees, | |
| Drowsed in the garden all day long. | |
| |
| How Summer, with her apron full | |
| Of manna, shook the red peach down; | 30 |
| Or, stretched among the shadows cool, | |
| Wove for her hair a daisy crown. | |
| |
| Or with her crickets, night and day, | |
| Gossiped of many a fairy thing, | |
| Her sweet breath warm with scents of hay | 35 |
| And honey, purple-blossoming. | |
| |
| How Autumn, trailing tattered gold | |
| And scarlet, in the orchard mused, | |
| And of the old trees taking hold | |
| Upon the sward their ripeness bruised. | 40 |
| |
| Or, past its sunset window-panes, | |
| Like thoughts that drift before old eyes, | |
| Whirled red leaves and the ragged rains, | |
| And crows, black-blown, about the skies. | |
| |
| How Winter, huddled in her hood | 45 |
| Of snow and sleet, crouched by its flues; | |
| Or, rushing from the stormy wood, | |
| Rapped at its doors with windy news … | |
| |
| It lived. The house was part of us. | |
| It was not merely wood and stone, | 50 |
| But had a soul, a heart, that thus | |
| Grappled and made us all its own. | |
| |
| The lives that with its life were knit, | |
| In some strange way, beyond the sense, | |
| Had gradually given to it | 55 |
| A look of old experience. | |
| |
| A look, which I shall not forget, | |
| No matter where my ways may roam. | |
| I close my eyes: I see it yet— | |
| The old house that was once my home. | 60 |
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