Classic Poem

'Twas there in summer down the grove
That I and friends were wont to rove,
Where then the gravelbedded brook,
O'ershaded under hanging boughs,
On-trickled round the quiet nook,
Or lay in pools for thirsty cows.

And here are still the stones we trod
In stepping o'er the stream dryshod,
And here are leaves that lie all dead,
About the lofty-headed tree,
Where leaves then quiver'd overhead,
All playfully alive as we.

While now, by moonlight, nightwinds keen,
May shake the ivy, ever green,
By this old wall, and hemlocks dry
May rattle by the leafless thorn,
I still can fancy people by
That I have lost, to live forlorn.