The hornets build in plaster-dropping rooms, <br />And on its mossy porch the lizard lies; <br />Around its chimneys slow the swallow flies, <br />And on its roof the locusts snow their blooms. <br />Like some sad thought that broods here, old perfumes <br />Haunt its dim stairs; the cautious zephyr tries <br />Each gusty door, like some dead hand, then sighs <br />With ghostly lips among the attic glooms. <br />And now a heron, now a kingfisher, <br />Flits in the willows where the riffle seems <br />At each faint fall to hesitate to leap, <br />Fluttering the silence with a little stir. <br />Here Summer seems a placid face asleep, <br />And the near world a figment of her dreams.<br /><br />Madison Julius Cawein<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/abandoned-39/
