Its windows were black to the snow and the rain
And the sky and the sun,
And the river sobbed on,
Like a child in a dream,
Under the unlopped sycamore boughs
That stifled the old stone house.
Now the axe-edge is blue on the sycamore rind,
By the workers huzza'd
Till the ashlared façade
Outpeers its disguise;