The House
THE rusty gate had been chained and padlocked Against the grass-grown path, Leading no-whither as I knew well, In a twilight still as death.
Once, one came to an old stone house there, Wheels crunched in those scarce-seen ruts ; A porch with jasmine, a stone-fringed garden- Lad's-love, forget-me-nots.
A happy house in that long-gone sunshine, And a face in the glass-bright moon, And a voice at which even memory falters, Now that the speaker's gone.
I watch that image as I look at the pathway— My once accustomed zest, As the painted gate on its hinges opened, Now locked against the past!
A true face, too, yet scant of the future— A book that I never read . .
Nor shall now, since I soon must be going To another old house instead.
WALTER DE LA MARE.
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