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!

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