UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth; That Pile of Turf is half a century old: Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 'Gainst him who raised it, -- his last work on earth: Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, Through reverence, touch it only to repair Its waste. -- Though crumbling with each breath of air, In annual renovation thus it stands -- Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there, And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TANGENTIAL by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE POPPY-LAND EXPRESS by EDGAR WADE ABBOT MORNING IN CAMP by HERBERT BASHFORD THE DESCRIPTION OF COOKHAM by AEMILIA (BASSANO) LANYER PALINODE; AUTUMN by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE; ELECTION BALLAD by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY |