Classic Poem

As oft I see by sight, or oft
In mind, the ridges on the ground,
The mark of many a little croft
And house where now no wall is found,
I call the folk to life again
And build their houses up anew;
I ween I shape them wrong, but who
Can now outmark their shapes to men?

I call them back to path or door
In warm-cheek'd life below the sun,
And see them tread their foot-worn floor
That now is all by grass o'errun.
To me the most of them may seem
Of fairer looks than were their own,
Yet some of all their lives were shown
As fair's the fairest of my dream.

I seem to see the church's wall
And some grey tomb below a yew,
And hear the churchyard wicket fall
Behind the people passing through.
I seem to hear, above my head,
The bell that in the tow'r was hung;
But whither went its iron tongue
That here bemoaned the long lost dead?