151. The Doves

THE house where I was born,

Where I was young and gay,

Grows old amid its corn,

Amid its scented hay.

Moan of the cushat dove,

In silence rich and deep;

The old head I love

Nods to its quiet sleep.

Where once were nine and ten

Now two keep house together;

The doves moan and complain

All day in the still weather.

What wind, bitter and great,

Has swept the country’s face,

Altered, made desolate

The heart-remembered place?

What wind, bitter and wild,

Has swept the towering trees

Beneath whose shade a child

Long since gathered heartease?

Under the golden eaves

The house is still and sad,

As though it grieves and grieves

For many a lass and lad.

The cushat doves complain

All day in the still weather;

Where once were nine or ten

But two keep house together.