Old, neglected cedar trees press close To hide these ruined walls From curious passers-by. This once was the abode of life, Birth entered here, death passed swiftly; Youth dwelt here with laughter, long ago, And age, departing, left a benediction. No rain can wash the footprints from this sill, Nor decay blot out the mark Of hands that pressed against this door; No wind can chill the flame this hearth-stone knew. Now cedars press their murmuring branches close, Where only memory lingers, only echo calls. |