Old Houses
By Edith Mirick
I like worn hungry houses
In old forgotten ways,
A bit like weary people
Who have known better days;
Dilapidated houses
With blinds all hung askew,
And darkly tangled gardens
Weed-grown, to wander through.
A snug house, trim and prosperous,
Could never lure me in;
It has the haughty manner
Of a woman without sin.
But tumbled houses hurt me
As people who have seen
The bitter side of loving
Like Mary Magdalene.
And I must pause to pity
And rehabilitate,
Within my fancy, leaning
Upon a broken gate.
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