Fiddler's Farewell/New England Cottage
New England Cottage
The house is all in wooden rags,The chimney tilts, the gable sags,And where I passAre weedy flagsThat my feet guess.
A horse-shoe rusts above the door,Young roses prowl the porch's floor,Up in the darkWide sycamoreIs thrushes' talk.
And here, a well not yet gone dry!Lean in and meet its mellow eye,Look deep, to whereA round of skyLurks with its star.
Happy old house of moldy beams,Of cobweb rooms and loosening seams,Besieged old wallsThat guard their dreamsLike sentinels.
Old ark—slow-withering stick and stone,Oak flesh that fades on iron bone;And not deserted,Just aloneAnd drowsy-hearted.