Classic Poem

The old wind stirs the hawthorn tree;
— The tree is blossoming;
Northward the road runs to the sea,
— And past the House of Spring.

The folk go down it unafraid;
— The still roofs rise before;
When you were lad and I was maid,
— Wide open stood the door.

Now, other children crowd the stair,
— And hunt from room to room;
Outside, under the hawthorn fair,
— We pluck the thorny bloom.

Out in the quiet road we stand,
— Shut in from wharf and mart,
The old wind blowing up the land,
— The old thoughts at our heart.