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Property

Robert Service

The red-roofed house of dream design
       Looks three ways on the sea;
For fifty years I've made it mine,
       And held it part of me.
The pines I planted in my youth
       Triumpantly are tall . . .
Yet now I know with sorry sooth
       I have to leave it all.
       
Hard-hewn from out the living rock
       And salty from the tide,
My house has braved the tempest shock
       With hardihood and pride.
Each nook is memoried to me;
       I've loved its every stone,
And cried to it exultantly:
       "My own, my very own!"

Poor fool! To think that I possess.
       I have but cannot hold;
And all that's mine is less and less
       My own as I grow old.
My home shall ring with childish cheers
       When I shall leave it lone;
My house will bide a hundred years
       When I am in the bone.

Alas! No thing can be my own:
       At most a life-long lease
Is all I hold, a little loan
       From Time, that soon will cease.
For now by faint and failing breath
       I feel that I must go . . .
Old House! You've never known a death,--
       Well, now's your hour to know.

Added: 25 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 23 Apr 2018 1:19 AM | Viewed: 3749 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/4122/ | Viewed on 23 April 2018.
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