William Barnes (1801–1886)

AND passing here through evening dew,

He hastened happy to her door,

But found the old folk only two

With no more footsteps on the floor

To walk again below the skies

Where beaten paths do fall and rise.

For she wer gone from earthly eyes

To be a-kept in darksome sleep

Until the good again do rise

A joy to souls they left to weep.

The rose were dust that bound her brow;

The moth did eat her Sunday cape;

Her frock were out of fashion now;

Her shoes were dried up out of shape.