The gates are chained, the barbed-wire fencing stands,
An iron authority against the snow,
And this grey monument to common sense
Resists the weather. Fears of idle hands,
I wrote a long poem
for you this morning
in the pure light
of an untouched day.
They dumped it on the lonely road,
Then like a streak they sped;
And as along the way I strode
I thought that it was dead:
Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe,
O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear!
To plunder'd Want's half-shelter'd hovel go,
Ever since I set foot in school for my new academic year
It looks like luck has abandoned me
My bus came late to pick me up for school
So guess who is punished, me!
The abandoned house
Devoid of windows and roof
Posts like wonky teeth
But I can still remember
And when was the time twinkling
Years in separation in union nothing
Heart on the sleeve for the youth exuberant
Songs to the senses in autumn the spring
Here the shades of rust are manifold.
The rails resemble velvet, thick and plush.
A dark grease from the time of the last Tsar
rests deep within the wood of sunken ties.
It’s just an old abandoned farmhouse
On a weedy, grown up moor
I suspect that it has stood there
For a century or more