Classic Poem

Death can but play one game with me—
If I live here alone;
He cannot strike me a foul blow
Through a belovèd one.

To-day he takes my neighbour's wife,
And leaves a little child
To lie upon his breast and cry
Like the Night-wind, so wild.

And every hour its voice is heard—
Tell me where is she gone!
Death cannot play that game with me—
If I live here alone.