New England Cottage
The house is all in wooden rags,
The chimney tilts, the gable sags,
And where I pass
Are weedy flags
That my feet guess.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Oak flesh that fades on iron bone;
And not deserted,
Just alone
And drowsy-hearted.