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