The Need of being Versed in Country Things

The house had gone to bring again / To the midnight sky a sunset glow.

Now the chimney was all of the house that stood, / Like a pistil after the petals go.

The barn opposed across the way, / That would have joined the house in flame / Had it been the will of the wind, was left / To bear forsaken the place's name.

No more it opened with all one end / For teams that came by the stony road / To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs / And brush the mow with the summer load.

The birds that came to it through the air / At broken windows flew out and in, / Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh / From too much dwelling on what has been.

Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf, / And the aged elm, though touched with fire; / And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm; / And the fence post carried a strand of wire.

For them there was really nothing sad.

But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept, / One had to be versed in country things / Not to believe the phoebes wept.