348 POEMS 
THE DYING HOUSE 
SHE is dead ; her house is dying ; 
Round its long-deserted door, 
From the hillside and the moor, 
Swell the autumn breezes sighing. 
Closer to its windows press 
Pine-tree boughs in mute caress ; 
Wind-sown seeds in silence come, 
Root, and grow, and bud, and bloom ; 
Year by year, kind Nature’s grace 
Wraps and shields her dwelling-place. 
She who loved all things that grew, 
Talked with every bird that flew, 
Brought each creature to her feet 
With persuasive accents sweet, — 
Now her voice is hushed and gone, 
Yet the birds and bees keep on. 
Oh the joy, the love, the glee, 
Sheltered once by that roof-tree ! 
Song and dance and serenade, 
Joyous jest by maskers played ; 
Passionate whispers on the stairs, 
Hopes unspoken, voiceless prayers ; 
Greetings that repressed love’s theme, 
Partings that renewed its dream ; 
All the blisses, all the woes, 
