The locks are rusty, dusty, old;

The clocks are heavy, gilt in gold,

But the gold is tarnished

And the ticking heart-beat stilled.

The oak mantle, once varnished,

Is scratched and termite-filled.

The walls are dingy, dusty, gray;

The portrait colors fade away,

For the many windows

Lost their curtains long ago.

Through each broken pane in blows

Sunlight, rain and snow.

The rooms are grim and dim and sad;

The house remembers what it had

When Summer days were long

And the children used to play;

When the rooms were filled with song,

But all has passed away.