Ruins of a great house Though our longest sun sets at right declensions and makes but winter arches, it cannot be long before we lie down in darkness, and have our light in ashes. . . Stones only, the disjecta membra of this Great House, whose moth-like girls are mixed with candledust, Remain to file the lizard's dragonish claws. The mouths of those gate cherubs shriek with stain; Axle and coach wheel silted under the muck of cattle droppings. Three crows flap for the trees and settle, creaking the eucalyptus boughs. A smell of dead limes quickens in the nose. The leprosy of empire. ‘Farewell, green fields, Farewell, ye happy groves!' Marble like Greece, like Faulkner's South in stone, deciduous beauty prospered and is gone, but where the lawn breaks in a rash of trees a spade below dead leaves will ring the bone of some dead animal or human thing fallen from evil days, from evil times. It seems that the original crops were limes grown in that silt that clogs the river's skirt; The imperious rakes are gone, their bright girls gone, the river flows, obliterating hurt. I climbed a wall with the grille ironwork of exiled craftsmen protecting that great house from guilt, perhaps, but not from the worm's rent nor from the padded calvary of the mouse. And when a wind shook in the limes I heard what Kipling heard, the death of a great empire, the abuse of ignorance by Bible and by sword. A green lawn, broken by low walls of stone, dipped to the rivulet, and pacing, I thought next of men like Hawkins, Walter Raleigh, Drake, ancestral murderers and poets, more perplexed in memory now by every ulcerous crime. The world's green age then was rotting lime whose stench became the charnel galleon's text. The rot remains with us, the men are gone. But, as dead ash is lifted in a wind that fans the blackening ember of the mind, my eyes burned from the ashen prose of Donne. Ablaze with rage I thought, some slave is rotting in this manorial lake, but still the coal of my compassion fought that Albion too was once a colony like ours, ‘part of the continent, piece of the main', nook-shotten, rook o'erblown, deranged by foaming channels and the vain expense of bitter faction. All in compassion ends so differently from what the heart arranged: ‘as well as if a manor of thy friend's. . . ‘