The ivy clings to the slow crumbling stone,
And blooms make glad the half-filled, tideless moat,
Whose waves once saw broad, stately banners float
From battlements the swallows claim their own,
The terrace steps, with gray moss overgrown,
Where now the toads like lazy topers gloat,
While warm light mellows each gray mottled coat,
The touch of dainty feet have often known.
Brown bats are clinging to the quaint device,
Telling of some great deed, forgotten long,
And low winds through the casements lingering pass
From broken wainscotes peer the timid mice,
And on the porch a wren makes garrulous song,
And sparrows chatter in the bending grass.