Classic Poem

The gate is swinging from the hasp,
The garden plat shrinks, less and less,
'Mid weed and seed, and things that clasp
All beauty in their hideousness;
The wildness seems to grow and grow,
However late or long I strive;
There's nothing blooms! It was not so
When Ellen was alive!

The neighbours for a time were kind,
And rarely passed without a word;
But they who grieve have friends to find!
And sorrow tires when often heard!
So by another path they go
Across the brook, beyond the hive,
And few come near: — it was not so
When Ellen was alive!