Of the old house, only a few, crumbled <br />Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock, <br />Or a shaped stone lying mossy where it tumbled! <br />Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock <br />What once was fire-lit floor and private charm, <br />Whence, seen in a windowed picture, were hills fading <br />At night, and all was memory-coloured and warm, <br />And voices talked, secure of the wind's invading. <br />Of the old garden, only a stray shining <br />Of daffodil flames among April's Cuckoo-flowers <br />Or clustered aconite, mixt with weeds entwining! <br />But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towers <br />By homelier thorns; and whether the rain drifts <br />Or sun scortches, he holds the downs in ken, <br />The western vales; his branchy tiers he lifts, <br />Older than many a generation of men.<br /><br />Robert Laurence Binyon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-house-that-was-2/
