Poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese

Writ in a Book of Welsh Verse

THIS is the house where I was bred:
The wind blows through it without stint,
The wind bitten by the roadside mint;
Here brake I loaf, here climbed to bed.

The fuchsia on the window sill;
Even the candlesticks a-row,
Wrought by grave men so long ago --
I loved them once, I love them still.

Southward and westward a great sky! --
The throb of sea within mine ear --
Then something different, more near,
As though a wistful foot went by.

Ghost of a ghost down all the years! --
In low-roofed room, at turn of stair,
At table-setting, and at prayer,
Old wars, old hungers, and old tears!

1. Herbs
2. A Song for Candlemas
3. Mid-March
4. Lydia is gone this many a year
5. Oh, gray and tender is the rain

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