There is a house in a city street
Some past ones
made their own;
Its floors were criss-crossed by their feet,
And their
babblings beat
From ceiling to
white hearth-stone.
And who are peopling its parlours now?
Who talk across
its floor?
Mere freshlings are they, blank of brow,
Who read not
how
Its prime had
passed before
Their raw equipments, scenes, and says
Afflicted its
memoried face,
That had seen every larger phase
Of human ways
Before these
filled the place.
To them that house's tale is theirs,
No former voices
call
Aloud therein. Its
aspect bears
Their joys
and cares
Alone, from wall
to wall.
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