And so the greenest of antiques
  Was reared for Knott to dwell in: 
The architect worked hard for weeks
In venting all his private peaks
Upon the roof, whose crop of leaks
  Had satisfied Fluellen;
Whatever anybody had
Out of the common, good or bad,
  Knott had it all worked well in;
A donjon-keep, where clothes might dry, 50
A porter’s lodge that was a sty,
A campanile slim and high,
  Too small to hang a bell in;
All up and down and here and there,
With Lord-knows-whats of round and square
Stuck on at random everywhere,—­
It was a house to make one stare,
  All corners and all gables;
Like dogs let loose upon a bear,
Ten emulous styles staboyed with care, 60
The whole among them seemed to tear,
And all the oddities to spare
  Were set upon the stables.

Knott was delighted with a pile
  Approved by fashion’s leaders: 
(Only he made the builder smile,
By asking every little while,
Why that was called the Twodoor style,
  Which certainly had three doors?)
Yet better for this luckless man 70
If he had put a downright ban
  Upon the thing in limine;
For, though to quit affairs his plan,
Ere many days, poor Knott began
Perforce accepting draughts, that ran
  All ways—­except up chimney;
The house, though painted stone to mock,
With nice white lines round every block,
  Some trepidation stood in,
When tempests (with petrific shock, 80
So to speak,) made it really rock,
  Though not a whit less wooden;
And painted stone, howe’er well done,
Will not take in the prodigal sun
Whose beams are never quite at one
  With our terrestrial lumber;
So the wood shrank around the knots,
And gaped in disconcerting spots,
And there were lots of dots and rots
  And crannies without number, 90
Wherethrough, as you may well presume,
The wind, like water through a flume,
  Came rushing in ecstatic,
Leaving, in all three floors, no room
  That was not a rheumatic;
And, what with points and squares and rounds
  Grown shaky on their poises,
The house at nights was full of pounds,
Thumps, bumps, creaks, scratchings, raps—­till—­’Zounds!’
Cried Knott, ’this goes beyond all bounds; 100
I do not deal in tongues and sounds,
Nor have I let my house and grounds
  To a family of Noyeses!’

But, though Knott’s house was full of airs,
  He had but one,—­a daughter;
And, as he owned much stocks and shares,
Many who wished to render theirs
Such vain, unsatisfying cares,
And needed wives to sew their tears,
  In matrimony sought her; 110
They vowed her gold they wanted not,
  Their faith would never falter,
They longed to tie this single Knott
  In the Hymeneal halter;
So daily at the door they rang,
  Cards for the belle delivering,
Or in the choir at her they sang,
Achieving such a rapturous twang
  As set her nerves ashivering.