  LONG, long ago in our old street Back from the busy road, An old deserted stone house stood Breaking beneath its load. Such ruin that remained of peaks Stood out against the skies. And the memory of old things Looked from behind its eyes. In summer time this dead old house Set in its flowery space. One likened to a stranger In a much too friendly place. In winter time its creaking frame With all its falling beams, Was like a sea rocked sailor Grown weary of his dreams. It leaned a little westward. And now I think it knew, And was waiting other voices It long had listened to. Once I was part of this old ruin When I myself were young. Out of pity I must leave you And half the song unsung. |
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