by Edwin Arlington Robinson

    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 the 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.