In perfect June we reached the house to let,In remote woodland, up a private lane,Beyond a pond that seemed as black as jetWhereon a moorhen oared with chickens twain;And from the first a sense of want or debtSeemed to possess the place from ancient pain.
Then, turning Right, we had the House in view,A red Victorian brick--with earlier stone,Fair, but unhappy, being overgrownWith all the greenness Summer ever grew.
