“My house,” I say. But hark to the sunny doves
That make my roof the arena of their loves,
That gyre about the gable all day long
And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song:
“Our house,” they say; and “mine,” the cat declares
And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;
And “mine” the dog, and rises stiff with wrath
If any alien foot profane the path.
So too the buck that trimmed my terraces,
Our whilome gardener, called the garden his;
Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode
And his late kingdom, only from the road.
Public-domain source text
“My House,” I Say. But Hark to the Sunny Doves
by Robert Louis Stevenson
From Standard Ebooks · standardebooks/robert-louis-stevenson_poetry
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