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 Faint white pillars that seem to fade 
As you look from here are the first one sees 
Of his house where it hides and dies in a shade 
Of beeches and oaks and hickory trees.
Now many a man, given woods like these, And a house like that, and the Briony gold, Would have said, "There are still some gods to please, And houses are built without hands, we're told.
There are the pillars, and all gone gray.
Briony's hair went white.
You may see Where the garden was if you come this way.
That sun-dial scared him, he said to me; "Sooner or later they strike," said he, But he knew too much for the life he led.
And who knows all knows everything That a patient ghost at last retrieves; There's more to be known of his harvesting When Time the thresher unbinds the sheaves; And there's more to be heard than a wind that grieves For Briony now in this ageless oak, Driving the first of its withered leaves Over the stones where the fountain broke.

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