Classic Poem

White through the gate it gleamed and slept
In shuttered sunshine: the parched garden flowers,
Their fallen petals from the beds unswept,
Like children unloved and ill-kept
Dreamed through the hours.
Two blue hydrangeas by the blistered door, burned brown.
Watched there and no one in the town
Cared to go past it night or day,
Though why this was they wouldn't say.
But I, the stranger, knew that I must stay,
Pace up the weed-grown paths and down,
Till one afternoon—there is just a doubt—
But I fancy I heard a tiny shout—
From an upper window a bird flew out—
And I went my way.