The Ruin Poem by Joseph Skipsey

THE bitter wind blows o'er the desolate wold,
—The bloom from the blossom forever is sped!—
And I must trudge on thro' the sleet and the cold,
And sweet to my heart were the lot of the dead.

Upon my shrunk bosom sleep seizeth my child,
—The bloom from the blossom forever is sped!—
Awaken my darling!—Alas, I'm beguiled,
And would I too slept the sound sleep of the dead.

Cold, cold are its feet and its bosom, and oh,
—The bloom from the blossom forever is sped!—
No more will the bird prove a light to my woe;
And would I too slept the sound sleep of the dead.

Its sweet glossy eyes seem to look at men yet,
—The bloom from the blossom forever is sped!—
They mind me of others I fain would forget;
And would I too slept the sound sleep of the dead.

Its soft silken locks, e'er as sunny as soft,
—The bloom from the blossom forever is sped!—
A-wet are the curies I've kissed so oft;
And would I too slept the sound sleep of the dead.

The wee tottie crept atween me and my toil,
—The bloom from the blossom forever is sped!—
But then its bit smile had the trick of his smile,
And would that I slept the sound sleep of the dead.

No father had I once to threaten or frown,
—The bloom from the blossom forever is sped!—
And mother kept silent till reason had flown,
Then dropt she to sleep—the sound sleep of the dead.

I've reached the old ruin endeared by the past,
—The bloom from the blossom forever is sped!—
He'll come here and find our bones whiten'd at last,
And lie down and rest by the dust of the dead.