THE DESERTED HOUSE

There's no smoke in the chimney,

And the rain beats on the floor;

There's no glass in the window,

There's no wood in the door;

The heather grows behind the house,

And the sand lies before.

No hand hath trained the ivy,

The walls are gray and bare;

The boats upon the sea sail by,

Nor ever tarry there.

No beast of the field comes nigh,

Nor any bird of the air.

Mary Coleridge