Some very nice persons have no use for things
Of wind and rust and dust with wings,
Or dust that broods in the sun and sings,

But I like noons when it’s hot and dusty,
And cellars that are damp and musty,
And windmills especially when they’re rusty.

I like an orchard gone to seed
In thistles and gourd and tangles of weed,

I like a mossy trough that spills,
And old machinery left on hills,

Deserted barns and earthy smells,
And water shining in old wells.

I like the rumble of a warm
Cloud gathering a thunderstorm,
And gusts of wind that whirl and fall,
And stillness, and a dove’s call.

Some very nice persons have no use for things
Of wind and rust and dust with wings,
Or dust that broods in the sun and sings,

But what may seem like ruins of a wall
For me hasn’t changed very much at all
From the castle it was, and I hear the call

Of children who lived here long ago
Still beautiful and sunny and slow,
And the secret they know, I seem to know.