Classic Poem

How happy the evenings, when I, in my pride,
Here walked on with you and some more at my side,
Your cousin, and Harry, and Mary that died.
In summer with dew.
As lively as larks, down the slope of the hill,
We tripp'd on to Pentridge, beside the old mill,
With Stour-driven wheel that is workless and still.
In summer with dew, where cows were at rest,
And over the water, and over the grass,
And over the road that again we shall pass,
Blew softly a wind from the west.

The house that, at Pentridge, then yielded a smoke,
Was mossy's an elm, but as firm as an oak,
To shelter the glossy-haired heads of its folk,
In summer with dew.
But now, where the wall-blossom hung, is no wall,
And now, where the cattle were fed, is no stall,
And now, on the ground of the house-floor, may fall
In summer the dew, where blossom is white,
And over the rushes, and over the sedge,
And over the path from the river's green edge,
Blows softly the wind of the night.

And now, if we go to the mill down below
The hill, where the slow-gliding waters yet flow,
Or the fields where in boyhood I went to and fro,
In summer with dew:
Whereto? Of the house we shall find not a trace.
To whom? Of my kindred we find not a face.
For what? For my business is far from the place,
In summer with dew, and swallows on wing,
While on by the stile, and along by the bank,
And on by the lane with the elm-trees in rank,
Blows softly the wind of the spring.