To the sweet memory of Sidney Lanier <br /> <br />The old house stands deserted, gray, <br />With sharpened gables high in air, <br />And deep-set lattices, all gay <br />With massive arch and framework rare; <br />And o’er it is a silence laid, <br />That feeling, one grows sore afraid. <br /> <br />The eaves are dark with heavy vines; <br />The steep roof wears a coat of moss; <br />The walls are touched with dim designs <br />Of shadows moving slow across; <br />The balconies are damp with weeds, <br />Lifting as close as streamside reeds. <br /> <br />The garden is a loved retreat <br />Of melancholy flowers, of lone <br />And wild-mouthed herbs, in companies sweet, <br />’Mid desolate green grasses thrown; <br />And in its gaps the hoar stone wall <br />Lets sprays of tangled ivy fall. <br /> <br />The pebbled paths drag, here and there, <br />Old lichened faces, overspun <br />With silver spider-threads—they wear <br />A silence sad to look upon: <br />It is so long since happy feet <br />Made them to thrill with pressure sweet. <br /> <br />’Mid drear but fragrant shrubs there stands <br />A saint of old made mute in stone, <br />With tender eyes and yearning hands, <br />And mouth formed in a sorrow lone; <br />’Tis thick with dust, as long ago <br />’Twas thick with fairest blooms that grow. <br /> <br />Swallows are whirring here and there; <br />And oft a little soft wind blows <br />A hundred odors down the air; <br />The bees hum ’round the red, last rose; <br />And ceaselessly the crickets shrill <br />Their tunes, and yet, it seems so still. <br /> <br />Or else, from out the distance steals, <br />Half heard, the tramp of horses, or <br />The bleak and harsh stir of slow wheels <br />Bound cityward; but more and more, <br />As these are hushed, or yet increase, <br />About the old house clings its peace.<br /><br />Lizette Woodworth Reese<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-deserted-house-5/
