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.

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