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It was a big house, bleak;

Grass on the drive;

We had been there before

But memory, weak in front of

A blistered door, could find

Nothing alive now;

The shrubbery dripped, a crypt

Of leafmould dreams; a tarnished

Arrow over an empty stable

Shifted a little in the almost wind,

And wishes were unable

To rise; on the garden wall

The pear trees had come loose

From rotten loops; one wish,

A rainbow bubble, rose,

Faltered, broke in the dull

Air-What was the use?

The bell-pull would not pull

And the whole place, one might

Have supposed, was deadly ill:

The world was closed,

And remained closed until

A sudden angry tree

Shook itself like a setter

Flouncing out of a pond

And beyond the sombre line

Of limes a cavalcade

Of clouds rose like a shout of

Defiance. Near at hand

Somewhere in a loose-box

A horse neighed

And all the curtains flew out of

The windows; the world was open.