Something about old houses calls to certain sorts of people. Is it the history, the sense of rescue from the brink of no return? or is it just more pragmatic motivations? For all of us: a poem, and a picture.
THE old house leans upon a tree
Like some old man upon a staff:
The night wind in its ancient porch
Sounds like a hollow laugh.
The heaven is wrapped in flying clouds
As grandeur cloaks itself in gray:
The starlight flitting in and out,
Glints like a lanthorn ray.
The dark is full of whispers. Now
A fox-hound howls: and through the night,
Like some old ghost from out its grave,
The moon comes misty white.
-by Madison Cawein