What weeds grow here on this melancholy patch that was my garden?
Where crows swing low over seeds unknown to me,
Except by their green issue in front of the house
Beside the path leading to my door.
Standing there once, I heard thunder far off behind
The green hills shrouded in morning mist
And the strong perfume of honeysuckle charming the gray light.
The house is old now, unpainted and weary
Of my burden. "I should fly away with the crows
Of a morning," I think. And then my wings fail me
And I sink back upon the fragrant grasses and weep.