It listens, huddled in a clump of trees, For feet that seek its path no more at all; Only the winds go in and out, and bees That have their storehouse in a ruined wall. Only a vine comes creeping back in spring To coax it into fragrant memory, -- Sensing how lost and desolate a thing A house abandoned in old age can be. More dingy and more shrunken in the sight Of greening hills and orchards lit with bloom, The house peers out between its trees till night Has blinded it, and in the thickened gloom, An old vine breathes remembrance on the airs That prowl the rooms and silence-drifted stairs. . . . | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FROM HIDDEN SOURCE by JEAN ANDERSON INVITES POETS AND HISTORIANS TO WRITE IN CYNTHIA'S PRAISE by PHILIP AYRES FLORENTINE INGRATITUDE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: DESIRE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |