poetry Hw 7*

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.