The Barn-Edmund Blunden (1896-1974)

Rain-sunken roof, grown green and thin
For  sparrows' nests and starlings' nests;
Dishevelled eaves; unwieldy doors,
Cracked rusty pump, and oaken floors,
And idly-pencilled names and jests
Upon the posts within.

The light pales at the spider's lust,
The wind tangs through the shattered pane:
An empty hop-poke spreads across
The gaping frame to mend the loss
And keeps out sun as well as rain,
Mildewed with clammy dust.

The smell of apples stored in hay
And homely cattle-cake is there.
Use and disuse have come to terms,
The walls are hollowed out by worms,
But men's feet keep the mid-floor bare
And free from worse decay.

All mery noise of hens astir
Or sparrows squabbling on the roof
Comes to the baarn's broad open door;
You hear upon the barn's broad open door;
You hear upon the staable floor
Old hungry Dapple strike his hoof,
And the blue fan-tails whir.

The baarn is old, and very old,
But not a place of spectral fear.
Cobwebs and dust and speckling sun
Come to old buildings every one.
Long since they made their dwelling here,
And here you may behold

Nothing but simple wane and change;
Your tread will wake no ghost, your voice
Will fall in silence undeterred.
No phantom wailing will be heard,
 Only the faarm's blithe cheerful noise;
The barn is old, not strange.
--Edmund Blunden