With all its chambers on the lower floor;
In fact, of stories it could boast no more
Than simply one. ’Twas at the river’s side,
And near it grew a noble sycamore;
A velvet lawn of green, outspreading wide,
Sloped smoothly down to meet the ever rippling tide.
VIII.
Long at the door the wife and mother stood,
With ear intent to catch the slightest sound
From those pale sleepers. Deep solicitude