Thomas Hardy — The Ageing House

        When the walls were red         That now are seen         To be overspread         With a mouldy green,         A fresh fair head         Would often lean         From the sunny casement         And scan the scene, While blithely spoke the wind to the little sycamore tree.         But storms have raged         Those walls about,         And the head has aged         That once looked out;         And zest is suaged         And trust is doubt,         And slow effacement         Is rife throughout, While fiercely girds the wind at the long-limbed sycamore tree!