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!