A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and
With doors that none but the wind ever
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.
I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;
'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those
'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy,
'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'
So we must join hands in the dew coming
There in the hush of the wood that reposes,
And turn and go up to the open door boldly,
And knock to the echoes as beggars for