Classic Poem

Ah, well I know that just beyond the gate
Lies the long glade where once I used to stray;
Yet cease, for friendship's sake, these urging words
To tread this year the old accustomed way.

I am afraid of that green hedge-girt walk,
The silent sun-scorched field, the moist, dim wood,
And then—O little corner by the fallen tree,
O distant murmur of the ocean flood!

No memories of another haunt the place.
Yet, while I whisper, pity and forbear.
'T is that I dare not face my last year's self,
The happy ghost that ever wanders there!