The House That Was

OF the old house, only a few crumbled

Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock,

Or a squared stone, lying mossy where it tumbled!

Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock

What once was firelit floor and private charm

Where, seen in a windowed picture, hills were fading

At dusk, and all was memory-coloured and warm,

And voices talked, secure from the wind’s invading.

Of the old garden, only a stray shining

Of daffodil flames amid April’s cuckoo-flowers,

Or a cluster of aconite mixt with weeds entwining!

But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towers

By homely thorns: whether the white rain drifts

Or sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken,

The western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts,

Older than many a generation of men.