If ever I shall have to leave this house—This dear small house upon this quiet hill—Its front door shaded by do Its windows framing recurrent thrill Of dawn on mountains, and the golden are Of noon incurving on the river's The di ing of the curtains of the dar Across the crimson glory of the west, If ever I shall have to go-—to live Again on levels, on an avenue" Where vistas of the sky are
Where roofs ani chinmoy-stacks fugitive, usurp the view—How premonition hurts!—oh, to depart From this dear-hillside house will break my heart, West-Point,
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.