Classic Poem

The white stone lady on the grass
Beneath the walnut tree,
She never smiles to see me pass,
Or blows a kiss to me.

She holds a cup in both her hands
With doves upon its brink,
And ho, so very still she stands
The thrushes come to drink.

She will not listen when I speak,
She never seemed to know,
When once I climbed to kiss her cheek
And brush away the snow.

She never took the daisy ring
I gave her yesterday;
She never cares to hear me sing,
Or watch me at my play.

But, still she looks through sun or rain,
Towards the garden door,
As though some child should come again
Who often came before.

Some little child who went away,
Before they knew of me,
Another child who used to play
Beneath the walnut tree.