The Doves

by
 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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