There is a house in a city street
  Some past ones made their own;
Its floors were criss-crossed by their feet,
    And their babblings beat
  From ceiling to white hearth-stone.
And who are peopling its parlours now?
  Who talk across its floor?
Mere freshlings are they, blank of brow,
    Who read not how
  Its prime had passed before
Their raw equipments, scenes, and says
  Afflicted its memoried face,
That had seen every larger phase
    Of human ways
  Before these filled the place.
To them that house’s tale is theirs,
 No former voices call
Aloud therein. Its aspect bears
    Their joys and cares
  Alone, from wall to wall.
  Some past ones made their own;
Its floors were criss-crossed by their feet,
    And their babblings beat
  From ceiling to white hearth-stone.
And who are peopling its parlours now?
  Who talk across its floor?
Mere freshlings are they, blank of brow,
    Who read not how
  Its prime had passed before
Their raw equipments, scenes, and says
  Afflicted its memoried face,
That had seen every larger phase
    Of human ways
  Before these filled the place.
To them that house’s tale is theirs,
 No former voices call
Aloud therein. Its aspect bears
    Their joys and cares
  Alone, from wall to wall.
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