The Life of the Estate

A woman inherits the proprietorship of her estate:
That though the land belongs to someone else,
Those that live as they are accustomed to in the house on the hill,
She feels in the same slow tread of the caretaker,
Under his straw hat, that the right of possession lies at the
  finger tips
And that the land we feel beneath our feet is part of ourselves.
The lands she cares for hiave been so long the living of her family
That every man is considered an intruder, though some
  excuse themselves
In that their needs lie beneath the perpetuation of the estate.

The house sits up on the hill; and has that satisfied look
Of a head taking credit: for the comfort the body enjoys in bed,
While below, on the green sloping lawns, its history is
  daily re-enacted:
The gardener, with his tools, breaking the earth for the
  new root to grow,
Or tying up plants grown too high for their stems to support;
The delivery boy walking toward the rear with the food in
  his arms;—
And the guests, having motoredl up the long drive, chat awhile
  on the porch
And are taken around to see with what pains the grounds
  are cared for:
On lawns kept too short to show for long any marks where they
  have been stepped on.