The Ageing House

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 is doubt,

        And slow effacement

        Is rife throughout,

While fiercely girds the wind at the long-limbed sycamore tree!

-o0o-