Of musing in a mansion hung with mildewed memories;
Of the silence of the stairways, of the statuary wan,
Of the alabaster angel riding on the fountain swan;
I’m irked by isolation and the lawns kept so and so—
I’d trade an old maid’s theories for a rood of Soap Suds Row;
For the sunflowers and the shanties where the shadows sit at ease,
For the horde of baby banshees and the swing-scarred apple-trees;
Therefore methinks I’ll venture to a disarrayed domain,
And shoonless dance the saraband in some assuaging lane.
No sandals wrought in Sybaris, or girdle bossed with gold,