"My House," I Say. But Hark to the Sunny Doves

"My house," I say. But hark to the sunny doves / That make my roof the arena of their loves, / That gyre about the gable all day long / And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song: / "Our house," they say; and "mine," the cat declares / And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs; / And "mine" the dog, and rises stiff with wrath / If any alien foot profane the path.

So too the buck that trimmed my terraces, / Our whilome gardener, called the garden his; / Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode / And his late kingdom, only from the road.