The Mansion On Kingbard Hill Poem by James P. Roberts

Walking in the freezing cold
beneath the pouring rain
with a bruised heart as hard
as a stone, I'm falling.
Before me lies the ancient
house where she once lived.

Perhaps it is still too hard
for me to speak of having lived
where the leaves were falling
in the autumnal cold.
Withstanding the lonely rain,
yet feeling so very ancient.

Wherever things have once lived,
whether in summer's heat or winter's cold;
whether in new or ancient
houses, perhaps leaking a sullen rain,
with loose, crumbling stones falling
to strike upon the ground, hard.

The whispering shadows of past ancient
ghosts walk the balusters, pacing in hard
hurried steps, unmindful of the lowering rain;
to rest again, there, where she once lived.
Waiting in the eternal cold
lengthened by the sun, falling.

I think of coppery gold hair falling
about your shoulders; still, ancient
and dry desires leave me cold
and eyes still -still! -dry and hard.
All experience I have lived
might be naught but a passing rain.

Seeing now appear through the rain,
my heart trips, is swiftly falling
into that ghostly house where you once lived.
No longer so drear and ancient.
No longer so outwardly hard.
No longer so damnably cold.