Four hundred years this little house has stood Through wind and fire, through earthquake and through flood; Still its old beams, though bulged and warped, are strong, In spite of gaping wounds both deep and long. The doors are low and give such narrow space We must walk humbly in this little place. The windows here, no longer square or straight, Are able now, from their fantastic state, To squint down their own walls, and see the flowers That get more drippings from the eaves than showers. Six hundred pounds for all this precious stone! These little, quaint old windows squinting down; This orchard, with its apples' last appeal To dumpling or sweet cider; this deep well, Whose little eye has sparkled from its birth – Four hundred years in sixty feet of earth! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH FIRST CYCLE OF LOVE POEMS: 2 by GEORGE BARKER THE STRICKEN HART by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 6 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH TENNESSEE; PRIZE CENTENNIAL ODE (1896) by VIRGINIA FRAZER BOYLE TWILIGHT TIME by MILDRED SOUTHWORTH BRYAN |