Classic Poem

He 's dead and gone! he's dead and gone!
And the lime-tree branches wave,
And the daisy blows,
And the green grass grows,
Upon his grave.

He's dead and gone! he's dead and gone!
And he sleeps by the flowering lime,
Where he loved to lie,
When the sun was high,
In summer time.

We've laid him there, for I could not bear
His poor old bones to hide
In some dark hole,
Where rat and mole
And blind worms bide.

We've laid him there, where the blessed air
Disports with the lovely light,
And raineth showers
Of those sweet flowers
So silver white;

Where the blackbird sings, and the wild bee's wings
Make music all day long.
And the cricket at night
(A dusky sprite!)
Takes up the song.

He loved to lie where his wakeful eye
Could keep me still in sight;
Whence a word or a sign,
Or a look of mine,
Brought him like light.

Nor a word nor sign, nor look of mine,
From under the lime-tree bough,
With hark and bound,
And frolic round,
Shall bring him now.

But he taketh his rest where he loved best
In the days of his life to be,
And that place will not
Be a common spot
Of earth to me.