The House That Was

Laurence Binyon

1869 to 1943

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Track 1

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