Classic Poem

'Tis a happiness to live
With the living, where they do
None but kindly deeds, nor give
Any word a heart may rue.
But within a longsome range
Of our life, with friend or mate,
Oh! the shifting mind may change
From goodwill to angry hate.

I have friends of steadfast mood,
Who are ever as they were,
Ever good as they were good,
Ever fair as they were fair;
Souls to worldly doings dead,
Who shall never change their face,
Nor shall unsay what they said,
Nor undo their deeds of grace.

So I built myself a hut,
Like a cell of mossy stone,
Where, with living men outshut,
They would come to me alone,
While my lamp was burning white,
And my fire was glowing red,
And the wind, in hasty flight,
Huffled loud above my head.

On the north a wood sprang high;
On the west a hillock's brow;
On the east an oak was nigh,
Ivy-bound from root to bough.
No high road brought on its feet
By my doorway, from afar,
Nor a soul that I should greet
Under moon or evening star.

There, in mind, I met the young
Now with men no longer found,
And I heard the friendly tongue
That in air no more can sound,
And the passing year and day
Never match'd the almanack,
But were some year gone away,
And an early day come back.

Seek alone your seasons fled,
Go alone to meet the dead.