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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.

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.

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