The red room with the giant bed
Where none but elders laid their head;
The little room where you and I
Did for awhile together lie
And, simple suitor, I your hand
In decent marriage did demand;
The great day nursery, best of all,
With pictures pasted on the wall
And leaves upon the blind,
A pleasant room wherein to wake
And hear the leafy garden shake
And rustle in the wind,
And pleasant there to lie in bed
And see the pictures overhead,
The wars about Sebastopol,
The grinning guns along the wall,
The daring escalade,
The plunging ships, the bleating sheep,
The happy children ankle-deep
And laughing as they wade:
All these are vanished clean away,
And the old manse is changed to-day;
It wears an altered face
And shields a stranger race.
The river, on from mill to mill,
Flows past our childhood’s garden still;
But ah! we children never more
Shall watch it from the water-door!
Below the yew, it still is there,
Our phantom voices haunt the air
As we w