Lone, it lingers on the mountain
With no sign or sound of life;
No sweet, happy, household cadence,
Laugh of child or song of wife.
How it stares adown the valley
With those hard and hollow eyes,
As if waiting, empty-hearted,
Hopeless, for some sweet surprise.
All the doors have broken hinges,
Rails have fallen from the fence;
High the dove-cote leans, abandoned,
Lonely birds have wandered hence.
Mosses creep through every crevice,
Sunshine bars the vacant floor,
And a yellow ox-eyed daisy
Peeps in wonder through the door.
Yonder windmill turning, turning,
In the old accustomed way,
Feels a sympathy in moving
With the winds that sigh alway:
"We have lost the waving tresses
Of a little golden head.
We can find no touch responsive.—
All but memory is dead."