The old house stood with weary pride,
Its walls a haven where time could bide.
Each weathered beam, each creak and groan,
A story carved in wood and stone.

The ivy clung in green embrace,
A living veil on its worn face.
Its tendrils wove through cracks and seams,
Binding the house to ancient dreams.

Beside it rose an ageless tree,
A sentinel of history.
Its roots dug deep, its branches wide,
A timeless witness by its side.

Its bark was gnarled, its leaves were thin,
Yet...