The house where I was born, <br />Where I was young and gay, <br />Grows old amid its corn, <br />Amid its scented hay. <br /> <br />Moan of the cushat dove, <br />In silence rich and deep; <br />The old head I love <br />Nods to its quiet sleep. <br /> <br />Where once were nine and ten <br />Now two keep house together; <br />The doves moan and complain <br />All day in the still weather. <br /> <br />What wind, bitter and great, <br />Has swept the country's face, <br />Altered, made desolate <br />The heart-remembered place ? <br /> <br />What wind, bitter and wild, <br />Has swept the towering trees <br />Beneath whose shade a child <br />Long since gathered heartease ? <br /> <br />Under the golden eaves <br />The house is still and sad, <br />As though it grieves and grieves <br />For many a lass and lad. <br /> <br />The cushat doves complain <br />All day in the still weather; <br />Where once were nine or ten <br />But two keep house together.<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-doves/
