Poems about House poems

Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its towerTicks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flags

'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . .Draw three cards, and lay them down,Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal,And think of time . . . My father was a clown,My mother was

The house beside the road, Where people livedAnd children played, Is empty nowAnd falling down.The echos of happy feet Are heard now, Tapping to the sound Of Poppy's fiddle, But the house be

From time to time, lifting his eyes, he seesThe soft blue starlight through the one small window,The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,—And turns to write . . . The clock, behind tic

The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten;The music changes tone, you wake, rememberDeep worlds you lived before,—deep worlds hereafterOf leaf on falling leaf, music on music,Rain and sorr

Now, when the moon slid under the cloudAnd the cold clear dark of starlight fell,He heard in his blood the well-known bellTolling slowly in heaves of sound,Slowly beating, slowly beating,Shaking

Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops,Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass.A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing,Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant,And

SILLIANDER and PATCH.THOU so many favours hast receiv'd,Wondrous to tell, and hard to be believ'd,Oh ! H---- D, to my lays attention lend,Hear how two lovers boastingly contend ;Like thee succes

Severe against the pleasant arc of sky The great stone box is cruelly displayed. The street becomes more dreary from its shade,And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die.Here sullen convicts in t

There's been a death in the opposite house As lately as to-day.I know it by the numb look Such houses have alway.The neighbors rustle in and out, The doctor drives away.A window opens lik

I went to Love's old treasure house last night, Alone, when all the world was still -- asleep, And saw the miser Memory, grown gray With years of jealous counting of his gems, There seated. Keen w

'This envelope you say has something in it Which once belonged to your dead son—or something He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?— The soul flies far, and we can only call it By thin