THE HOUSE An old house broods beneath the trees, The roof grown thick with moss, Where spiders weave their filmy lace From shimmering silver floss. There maples lay their glowing gems Along the crooked eaves And crown the broken sagging ridge With gold encrusted leaves. Sad fuchsias droop from swaying vines Of emerald, draped in tiers About the crumbling dusty porch -- A fragrance from the years When life within was blessed with youth -- Was flowing ruby red, But now, with lonely bleeding hearts, Seem mourning for their dead. THE LADY WHO LIVES THERE A symphony in age abides Between these placid walls, Serene, content. She wends her way Through plain familiar halls With sightless eyes. She feels the peace Of vanished pious hours, And waits for time, to blend the house, With her, among the flowers. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THIS SUMMER AND LAST by THOMAS HARDY FESTE'S SONG (1), FR. TWELFTH NIGHT by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE TWELVE ARTICLES by JONATHAN SWIFT DOLORES by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE OUR SOLDIERS' SANTIAGO SONG by DAVID GRAHAM ADEE |