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THE OLD HOUSE |
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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
106
THE OLD HOUSE
Quaint and forgotten, by an unused road,
An old house stands: around its doors the dense
Rank ironweeds grow high;
The chipmunks make a highway of its fence;
And on its sunken flagstones newt and toad
As still as lichens lie.
An old house stands: around its doors the dense
Rank ironweeds grow high;
The chipmunks make a highway of its fence;
And on its sunken flagstones newt and toad
As still as lichens lie.
The timid snake upon its hearth's cool sand
Sleeps undisturbed; the squirrel haunts its roof;
And in the clapboard sides
Of closets,—dim with many a spider woof,—
Like the uncertain tapping of a hand,
The beetle-borer hides.
Sleeps undisturbed; the squirrel haunts its roof;
And in the clapboard sides
Of closets,—dim with many a spider woof,—
Like the uncertain tapping of a hand,
The beetle-borer hides.
Above its lintel, under mossy eaves,
The mud-wasps build their cells; and in the floor
Of its neglected porch
The black bees nest: through each deserted door,
Vague as faint, phantom footsteps, steal the leaves
And dropped cones of the larch.
The mud-wasps build their cells; and in the floor
Of its neglected porch
The black bees nest: through each deserted door,
107
And dropped cones of the larch.
But come with me when sunset's magic old
Transforms this ruin—yea! transmutes this house:
When windows, one by one,—
Like Age's eyes, that Youth's love-dreams arouse,—
Grow lairs of fire; and a mouth of gold
Its wide door towards the sun.
Transforms this ruin—yea! transmutes this house:
When windows, one by one,—
Like Age's eyes, that Youth's love-dreams arouse,—
Grow lairs of fire; and a mouth of gold
Its wide door towards the sun.
Or let us wait until each rain-stained room
Is carpeted with moonlight, patterned oft
With shadow'd boughs o'erhead;
And through the house the wind goes rustling soft,
As might the ghost—a whisper of perfume—
Of some sweet girl long dead.
Is carpeted with moonlight, patterned oft
With shadow'd boughs o'erhead;
And through the house the wind goes rustling soft,
As might the ghost—a whisper of perfume—
Of some sweet girl long dead.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |