Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Old Home

Madison Cawein

THEY’VE torn the old house down, that stood,

Like some kind mother, in this place,

Hugged by its orchard and its wood,

Two sturdy children, strong of race.

The shrubs, which snowed their blossoms on

The walks wide-stretching from its doors

Like friendly arms, are dead and gone,

And over all a grand house soars.

Within its front no welcome lies,

But pride’s aloofness; wealth, that stares

From windows, cold as haughty eyes,

The arrogance of new-made heirs.

Its very flowers breathe of cast;

And even the Springtide seems estranged;

In that stiff garden, caught, held fast,

All her wild beauty trimmed and changed.

’T is not the Spring that once I knew,

Who made a glory of her face,

And, robed in shimmering light and dew,

Moved to wild music in this place.

How fair she walked here with her Hours,

Pouring out colors and perfumes,

And, with her bosom heaped with flowers,

Climbed by the rose-vines to its rooms.

Or round the old porch, ’mid the trees,

Fluttered a flute of bluebird song;

Or, murmuring with a myriad bees,

Drowsed in the garden all day long.

How Summer, with her apron full

Of manna, shook the red peach down;

Or, stretched among the shadows cool,

Wove for her hair a daisy crown.

Or with her crickets, night and day,

Gossiped of many a fairy thing,

Her sweet breath warm with scents of hay

And honey, purple-blossoming.

How Autumn, trailing tattered gold

And scarlet, in the orchard mused,

And of the old trees taking hold

Upon the sward their ripeness bruised.

Or, past its sunset window-panes,

Like thoughts that drift before old eyes,

Whirled red leaves and the ragged rains,

And crows, black-blown, about the skies.

How Winter, huddled in her hood

Of snow and sleet, crouched by its flues;

Or, rushing from the stormy wood,

Rapped at its doors with windy news …

It lived. The house was part of us.

It was not merely wood and stone,

But had a soul, a heart, that thus

Grappled and made us all its own.

The lives that with its life were knit,

In some strange way, beyond the sense,

Had gradually given to it

A look of old experience.

A look, which I shall not forget,

No matter where my ways may roam.

I close my eyes: I see it yet—

The old house that was once my home.