The Ruined Home

Who was the far-off founder of the house,With its red gates abutting to the road? --A palace, though its outer wings are shorn,And domes of glittering tiles. The wall withoutHas tottered into ruin, yet remainThe straggling fragments of some seven courts,The wreck of seven fortunes: roof and eavesStill hang together. From this chamber coolThe dense blue smoke arose. Nor heat nor coldNow dwells therein. A tall pavilion standsEmpty beside the empty rooms that faceThe pine-browed southern hills. Long purple vinesFrame the verandahs.Mount the sunken stepOf the red, joyous threshold, and shake downThe peach and cherry branches. Yonder groupOf scarlet peonies hath ringed aboutA lordly fellow with ten witnessesOf his official rank. The taint of meatLingers around the kitchen, and a traceOf vanished hoards the treasury retains.

Who can lay hold upon my words? Give heedAnd commune with thyself! How poor and meanIs the last state of wretchedness, when coldAnd famine thunder at the gates, and noneBut pale endurance on the threshold standsWith helpless hands and hollow eyes, the dumbBeholder of calamity. O thouThat would protect the land a thousand years,Behold they are not that herein once bloomedAnd perished; but the garden breathes of them,And all the flowers are fragrant for their sakes.Salute the garden that salutes the dead!