“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.