Classic Poem

Now it is I
Who on the frost-furred grass go by
Through these sheep-coloured walls
Where ice in long stalactites falls
And limestone scaurs and rocks
Are the old unchanging flocks.

It is not mine
To stroke you with a fly and line,
But where I see a soft gloom lie
You see me with a soft black eye;
I hear too as it were a voice
That breaks through your stone-trammelled noise.

You run, I walk
And no word catch of your scattered talk.
O Dove, do you remember some
Who by this way forget to come?
Mourning for them you make me glad,
If you mourn not I am not sad.