Deserted

The windows are shuttered,
Barred is the door
Where flickering shadows play--
The roses bloom, sweet as of yore;
But the hands that once tended them,
Tend no more.

Thru the old wall's chinks
The sunbeams pour
Their gathered radiance 'round,
Where the grass grows green
The stone walks o'er
But the feet that once trod there
Tread no more.

The bee-hives stand
By the old shed door,
Where the roseate sweet peas twine;
But no droning bees
Their sweets hang o'er;
And the voice that once sang there
Sings no more.

And the well-house roof
Lies on its floor,
And the bucket from which he loved to drink,
Is broken and moss-grown
And ne'er will pour
A draught for the lips that
Drink no more.

And the plums drop, sweeter
Than e'er before,
Where the currant bushes their rich fruit bear,
But the labor and love
Of a life are o'er
And the master is gone
To come no more.

^__Louisa Cooke Don-Carlos.