There is a house in a city street
       &nbsp Some past ones made their own;
Its floors were criss-crossed by their feet,
       &nbsp       &nbsp And their babblings beat
       &nbsp From ceiling to white hearth-stone.

And who are peopling its parlours now?
       &nbsp Who talk across its floor?
Mere freshlings are they, blank of brow,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Who read not how
       &nbsp Its prime had passed before

Their raw equipments, scenes, and says
       &nbsp Afflicted its memoried face,
That had seen every larger phase
       &nbsp       &nbsp Of human ways
       &nbsp Before these filled the place.

To them that house’s tale is theirs,
       &nbspNo former voices call
Aloud therein. Its aspect bears
       &nbsp       &nbsp Their joys and cares
       &nbsp Alone, from wall to wall.