Against a sloping wood it stands, A tiny house, half-hidden there. The crows fly round in shadowy bands; The grey field-mice run everywhere. Dead ivy's festooned from the eaves. There's grey moss on the shingle-roof. The wind against the shutter grieves. The evening sunlight hangs aloof. The lock is frozen fast with rust, But through the windows I can see The cracked walls, bare and thick with dust, And some dark fluid, that crazily Across the sunken floor is spilt . . . Is this the house our dead love built? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD. THE AUTHOR THAN FORTY by MATTHEW PRIOR LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY UNDER MY WINDOW by THOMAS WESTWOOD DRESSING THE BRIDE (A FRAGMENT) by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ON THE ENGINE AGAIN by ALEXANDER ANDERSON GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 7 by RICHARD BARNFIELD LAMENT FOR PIONEERS by VERNE BRIGHT LIFE AND LOVE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING SPRING FANTASIES: 1. MAY DAY IN MARCH by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |