The house is all in wooden rags,

The chimney tilts, the gable sags,

And where I pass

Are weedy flags

That my feet guess.

A horse-shoe rusts above the door,

Young roses prowl the porch’s floor,

Up in the dark

Wide sycamore

Is thrushes’ talk.

And here, a well not yet gone dry!

Lean in and meet its mellow eye,

Look deep, to where

A round of sky

Lurks with its star.

Happy old house of moldy beams,

Of cobweb rooms and loosening seams,

Besieged old walls

That guard their dreams

Like sentinels.

Old ark—slow-withering stick and stone,

Oak flesh that fades on iron bone;

And not deserted,

Just alone

And drowsy-hearted.