THE AGEING HOUSE

When the walls were red

  That now are seen

   To be overspread

    With a mouldy green,

     A fresh fair head

     Would often lean

    From the sunny casement

       And scan the scene,

   While blithely spoke the wind to the little sycamore tree.

      But storms have raged

       Those walls about,

       And the head has aged

        That once looked out;

        And zest is suaged

        And trust is doubt,

        And slow effacement

         Is rife throughout,

   While fiercely girds the wind at the long-limbed sycamore tree!

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     -o0o-