The Hut

O humble hut of the first bloom of time, Neither the noisy city's mingled Babel, Nor the most tranquil soul of the great plain, Nor the gold cloud of dust on the wide road, Nor the brook's course that sings like nightingales, Nothing of these is either shown to thee Or speaks before thy bare and flowerless window, O humble hut of the first bloom of time.

Only the neighbor's step now echoes on From the rough pavement built in Turkish times; The black wall's shadow, on the narrow street; And on the lonely ruins lightning-struck Ere they became the glory of a house, The nettles revel lustful and unreaped. Beneath the bare and flowerless window's sill, A nest of greenish black, like a small heart, Hangs tenantless and waits and waits and waits In vain for the return of the first swallow That has gone forth, its first and last of dwellers.

O thirsty eyes that linger magnet-bound On the nest's orphanhood of greenish black! O ears filled with the terror of the tune That travels to the bare and flowerless window High from thy roof moss-covered with neglect, O humble hut of the first bloom of time! It is the tune the lone-owl always plays Blowing upon the cursed flute of night Its lingering shrill notes of mournful measure, Herald of woe and prophet of all ill.