Classic Poem

It stands alone in the narrow dell,
An old red house with an ancient well;
A brook gleams bright in the moaning wood,
Where the crimson flush of the maples hood
Shines high on the sombre rocks, that rise
Like a wall against the northern skies.

A noisy fall from a mountain tarn,
Flashes and foams by the tumbling barn,
Whose open door to the wind is free,
And by it, a moss grown apple-tree,
Storm rent, and barren of fruitage stands,
Like a ghost in the warm October lands.

The tangled copse by the tumbling wall
Shades the winding road, and strong and tall
The mulleins grow where the rose was sweet;
And grass has hidden the trace of feet,
Whose merry patter has passed away,
And left grim silence, and shadows gray.

In the meadow path the daisies toss,
And the gate is barred with spider floss;
The garden is rich with weed and burr;
Through the empty rooms the swift bats whir;
The roof stares wide at the purple sky,
And heavy mould on the hearth doth lie.

On the sunny stone that lies before,
The web enshrouded and creaking door,
A lazy toad with a mottled coat,
Dozes and blinks as the brown flies float
Just out of his reach, and sharp and shrill
The crickets chirp on the window sill.

No love is bright in this lonely place,
Though there lingers still the subtle grace
That tells of its glory, faith and hope,
For low winds murmur along the slope,
And high in an elm a brown thrush swings,
And a merry carol loudly sings.

And here where the lithe green grasses grow,
Some sturdy flowers still bud and blow,
And the shadowy halls are never dumb,
Though the ruin of time to them has come,
For the echo of song and laughter seems
To linger amid the dusky beams.