Against a sloping wood it stands, A tiny house, half-hidden there. The crows fly round in shadowy bands; The grey field-mice run everywhere. Dead ivy's festooned from the eaves. There's grey moss on the shingle-roof. The wind against the shutter grieves. The evening sunlight hangs aloof. The lock is frozen fast with rust, But through the windows I can see The cracked walls, bare and thick with dust, And some dark fluid, that crazily Across the sunken floor is spilt . . . Is this the house our dead love built? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HALSTED STREET CAR by CARL SANDBURG TO THE MEN OF KENT by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH INSCRIPTIONS: 4 by MARK AKENSIDE EPITAPH ON FRANCIS CHARTRES by JOHN ARBUTHNOT CYNTHIA ON HORSEBACK by PHILIP AYRES |