Poetry Archives

They are all gone away,
 The House is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.

Through broken walls and gray
 The winds blow bleak and shrill:
They are all gone away.

Nor is there one to-day
 To speak them good or ill:
There is nothing more to say.

Why is it then we stray
 Around that sunken sill?
They are all gone away,

And our poor fancy-play
 For them is wasted skill:
There is nothing more to say.

There is ruin and decay
 In the House on the Hill:
They are all gone away,
There is nothing more to say.