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!