The House That Was

Laurence Binyon

1869 to 1943

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Track 1

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At dusk, and all was memory-coloured and warm,
  Where, seen in a windowed picture, hills were fading
  And voices talked, secure from the wind's invading.
The western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts,
Of the old garden, only a stray shining
Of the old house, only a few crumbled
Or a squared stone, lying mossy where it tumbled!
  But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towers
By homely thorns: whether the white rain drifts
What once was firelit floor and private charm
  Or sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken,
  Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock,
Or a cluster of aconite mixt with weeds entwining!
  Older than many a generation of men.
  Of daffodil flames amid April's cuckoo-flowers,
  Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock