Classic Poem

And now, my chubby critic, fat burly cynic,
For ever mocking and deriding my sad muse,
Draw near, and take a seat, I pray, close beside me,
And let us come to terms with this accursèd spleen.
But why that frown? Is it so hard to leave our woes,
A moment to forget ourselves in joyous song?
And now, admire the view! That sorry row of huts;
Behind, a level long descent of blackish earth,
Above, one layer thick of gray, unbroken clouds.
But where the cornfields gay or where the shady woods?
And where the river? In the court there, by the fence,
Shoot up two lean and withered trees to glad the eye;
Just two, no more; and one of them, you will observe,
By autumn rains has long been bared of its last leaf;
The scanty leaves upon the other only wait
The first loud breeze, to fall and foul the pond below.
No other sign of life, no dog to watch the yard.
But stay, Ivan I see, and two old women near;
With head unbared, the coffin of his child he bears,
And from afar to drowsy sexton loudly shouts,
And bids him call the priest, and church-door to unlock:
“Look sharp! The brat we should have buried long ago!”