WHEN the walls were red That now are seen To be overspread With a mouldy green, A fresh fair head Would often lean From the sunny casement And scan the scene, While blithely spoke the wind to the little sycamore tree. But storms have raged Those walls about, And the head has aged That once looked out; And zest is suaged And trust grows doubt, And slow effacement Is rife throughout, While fiercely girds the wind at the long-limbed sycamore tree! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: 19. ON HIS BLINDNESS by JOHN MILTON ON CRITICS; IN IMITATION OF ANACREON by MATTHEW PRIOR THE STRAYED REVELLER by MATTHEW ARNOLD FOR ONE LATELY BEREFT by MARGARET E. BRUNER MY FATHER WAS A FARMER by ROBERT BURNS BREAKING THE ROADS by PHOEBE CARY A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO ZEALOTS UPON THE &C. IN THE OATH by JOHN CLEVELAND |