Classic Poem

By a dim road, o'ergrown with dry thin grass,
—A little straggling, wild, wind-beaten tree
Stood, like a sentry, where no feet might pass,
—And storm-swept by the sea.

What was the secret of that lonely place?
—Had some accursèd thing gone by this way,
Leaving the horror of his evil face
—On leaf and bough and spray?

I know not. But the very sunbeams took
—The darkness of the gnarled and twisted stem;
The summer air those wrinkled leaves forsook
—Nor ever played in them.