Of the old house, only a few crumbled Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock, Or a squared stone, lying mossy where it tumbled! Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock What once was firelit floor and private charm Where, seen in a windowed picture, hills were fading At dusk, and all was memory-coloured and warm, And voices talked, secure from the wind's invading. Of the old garden, only a stray shining Of daffodil flames amid April's cuckoo-flowers, Or a cluster of aconite mixt with weeds entwining! But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towers By homely thorns: whether the white rain drifts Or sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken, The western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts, Older than many a generation of men. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPH FOR LINCOLN by WALT WHITMAN FANTAISIES DECORATIVES: 2. LES BALLOONS by OSCAR WILDE PERFECT WOMAN by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH DECEMBER by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH LAMENT FOR PIONEERS by VERNE BRIGHT ABER STATIONS: STATIO QUARTA by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN ONE THING by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON LINES ON REVISITING CATHCART by THOMAS CAMPBELL TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE OF OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |