Explore "Old Fairingdown" by Olive Tilford Dargan on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Soft as a treader on mosses / I go through the village that sleeps; / The village too early abed, / For the night still shuffles, a gipsy, / In the woods of the east, / And the west remembers the sun.
Not all are asleep; there are faces / That lean from the walls of the gardens; / Look sharply, or you will not see them, / Or think them another stone in the wall. / I spoke to a stone, and it answered / Like an aged rock that crumbles; / Each falling piece was a word. / "Five have I buried," it said, / "And seven are over the sea."