Classic Poem

As we rode through the village, the houses every one
Were open to the west wind and merry with the sun;
All except the one house, shuttered from the day,
Like a soul in sorrow who hides his face away.

As we rode past the village it would not quit my mind—
The little house in trouble that we had left behind;
Smoke lifted from the chimney, but the closed door cried,
“Oh, hurry by, oh, hurry by, nor seek the grief I hide.”

O little house in trouble, when back again I ride,
God grant I see your windows shine, your door flung wide,
And all your new-grown garden tremulous with Spring,
Like a face that smiles again through peace of comforting.