The Old Lowe House, Staten Island
Another prospect pleased the builder’s eye,And Fashion tenanted (where Fashion wanes)Here in the sorrowful suburban lanesWhen first these gables rose against the sky.Relic of a romantic taste gone by,This stately monument alone remains,Vacant, with lichened walls and window-panesBlank as the windows of a skull. But I,On evenings when autumnal winds have stirredIn the porch-vines, to this gray oracleHave laid a wondering ear and oft-times heard,As from the hollow of a stranded shell,Old voices echoing (or my fancy erred)Things indistinct, but not insensible.