The House That Was
Laurence Binyon
1869 to 1943
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Of the old house, only a few crumbled
of brick, smothered in nettle and dock,
Or a stone, lying mossy where it tumbled!
Sprawling bramble saucy thistle mock
What once was firelit floor and charm
Where, seen in a windowed picture, hills fading
At dusk, and all was memory-coloured and warm,
And voices talked, secure from the wind's invading.
Of old garden, only a stray shining
Of daffodil amid April's cuckoo-flowers,
Or a cluster of aconite mixt weeds entwining!
But, dark and lofty, a royal towers
By homely thorns: whether the white rain drifts
Or sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken,
western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts,
Older many a generation of men.