Edward FitzGerald

“ To most thou stand'st a record sad, But all the sunshine of the year Could not make thine aspect glad To one whose youth is buried here.
In thine ancient rooms and gardens Buried — and his own no more Than the youth of those old owners, Dead two centuries before. ”

“ And the ancient house stood rearing Undisturb'd her chimneys high, And her gilded vanes still veering Toward each quarter of the sky :
While like wave to wave succeeding Through the world of joy and strife, Household after household speeding Handed on the torch of life ”