Classic Poem

Far in the dim past, the dark house of childhood
She moves like a sunbeam, a glimmer of day.
Old voices are with me, old eyes look upon me
Far in the dark house where children could play.

Far in the dead time, the day, past recalling
Barred, buried deep in the crypts of the brain
Save, when the gates are unbarred in the silence,
Stir like a spectre the old bones again.

New friends are with me, the brave ones, the true ones
New work is by me, the work of today.
Only at times comes the vague burning sorrow
Rings the sweet laugh of an old voice at play.

Dead, little playmate: not dead, yet departed.
Dead in a woman who dwells far away.
Dead in the dream house, the dust house, the death house,
Far in the dark house where children could play.

God who repaireth the fall of the sparrow
Crowneth the lost rose once more with her crest,
He alone bindeth the heart that is broken,
On now to action. In death shall be rest.