The tall trees are standing, still standing alone,
Where they whisper each other the nights they have known,
And if they seem lonely without the old house,
Yet the birds in the evenings go there to carouse.
There they chatter and sing in their merriest lay,
And, like dancers, choose partners in much the same way;
And the boatmen will tell how they sometimes have heard
There the singing of songs—not the notes of a bird—
As though festive, gay spirits still hovered around,
Late, late in the night on the acre of ground.