Classic Poem

The trees, like mourners, linger round the place
Where once the homelike country dwelling stood.
Once did they wave their boughs in merry mood,
When children's voices echoed round the space,
But now their branches softly interlace
In silent sympathy, as if they would
Find solace, grateful to their hearts of wood,
For the lost comfort of a human face.

So sigh we o'er the idylls of the past,
So mourn we, pensive, 'mid the falling leaves,
So pine we, vainly, for the friends most dear.
Yet still a whisper says: Be not downcast.
And to the heart that all too sorely grieves
A voice shall say: Seek not your loved ones here.