Classic Poem

Though black the winter clouds might rise,
To back the rick's brown tip,
Though dark might reach the leafless hedge,
And bark of trees might drip,
With health and work and livelihood
I never pin'd for others' good.

And down along the timber'd grove,
All brown with leaves long shed,
Where round the ivy-hooded thorn
The ground was dry to tread,
I walk'd in home, with manly pride,
On foot, and heedless who might ride.

And come from evening's chilly shades,
In home I took at night
My place within the settle's back,
With face in fire-light,
Where one would spread my evening board
With soul-beguiling smile and word.

Then high above the chimney top
Might cry the wind, and low
Might sound, beside my window panes
And round my porch's bow,
Its sounds that now so sadly moan
Where one sweet voice no more is known.

How sweetly seem'd the running waves
To meet the mossy rock,
As quickly-flapping flames might play
By tickings of the clock;
But now their sounds are sad to hear,
Since one sweet tongue no more is near.