Classic Poem

The narrow trees down her lane in a row,
That look so black and then so gusty white,
She hates the old and foolish way they grow;
Just now they hid him all too soon from sight.
But back into the house she needs must go,
To spread the board, prepare the meal aright,
The savory things that little lads love so—
Round cakes, spiced meat, and apples red and bright.
Oh, dreams, but dreams! And oh, a sweet one, too,
That yesterday, until too dark to see,
She fashioned a small garment for her lad—
That shadowy garment, with its sprig of blue;—
For long and long a barren mother she;
And this the little son she never had!