I own John Graydon's place--His elm trees moving with a lovely graceAs slow and stately as a minuet,His great lawns wearing shadows like black lace,Too lovely to forget.A beggar am I, or vagabond of verse,With neither script nor guinea in my purse,With neither land nor honor of men, and yet,Unknown to all the scullions of his race,I own John's Graydon's place.
John Graydon bought with goldThese ivied walls, magnificent and old,This roadway guarded by dark, granite towers,These moon-cooled urns that, uncomplaining, holdThe ashes of dead flowers,And watch the dawn-like roses come and go,And these warm hawthorne hedges white as snow,These fountains, cool against the sunburnt hours,These beds, where blue forget-me-nots unfold,John Graydon bought with gold.
