My house, I say. But hark to the sunny doves That make my roof the arena of their loves, That gyre about the gable all day long And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song: Our house, they say; and mine, the cat declares And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs; And mine the dog, and rises stiff with wrath If any alien foot profane the path. So too the buck that trimmed my terraces, Our whilome gardener, called the garden his; Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode And his late kingdom, only from the road. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HYSTERIA by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT POETASTER: SONG (4) by BEN JONSON NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! by ISAAC MCLELLAN JR. THE GENERAL by SIEGFRIED SASSOON IDYLLS OF THE KING: MERLIN AND VIVIEN by ALFRED TENNYSON THE SHIP STARTING by WALT WHITMAN |