The place almost seems peopled,
nor lacks cottage chimney,
cottage hearth;
It is not more
in size than in a cottage,
less than any other empty home
in homeliness.
In homeliness.
It has a garden of wild flowers
and fines grass and
gravestones warm in sunshine
hours.
The year through.
Men behind the glass stand once a week,
singing,
and down the whistling grass.
Who have not seen them clearly;
If at sound of any wind of the world
in grass-blades stiff
They would not startle and shudder
cold under the sun.
When gods were young
this wind was old...
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