The lawns of the old estate
Are matted now with weeds
But their area and proportions
May still be discerned and
Still speak of careful planning
And overflowing abundance.
The spring-house is in shambles
The few brown stones left outline
What was then a wall around
This depression that was once
Square and clean and cool through the summers.
The porch, white with white columns
And a sky-blue ceiling
It all amazes me and suggests
A song or kind of music
Once captivating and now vanished.