Than a young poet's dream,

That through the ivies gleam.

 "Tell me," I said, while shrill the birds Sang through the garden space, To her who guided me—"tell me The story of the place." She lifted, in her Quaker cap, A peaceful, puzzled face, 

Sang through the garden space,

The story of the place."

A peaceful, puzzled face,

 Surveyed me with an aged, calm, And unpoetic eye; And peacefully, but puzzled half, Half tolerant, made reply: "The people come to see that house— Indeed, I know not why, 

And unpoetic eye;

Half tolerant, made reply:

Indeed, I know not why,

 "Except thee know the poem there— 'T was written long since, yet His name who wrote it, now—in fact— I cannot seem to get— His name who wrote that poetry I always do forget. 

'T was written long since, yet

I cannot seem to get—

I always do forget.

 "Hers was Evangeline; and here In sound of Christ Church bells She found her lover in this house, Or so I 've heard folks tell. But most I know is, that's her name, And his was Gabriel. 

In sound of Christ Church bells

Or so I 've heard folks tell.

And his was Gabriel.

 "I 've heard she found him dying, in The room behind that door, (One of the Friends' old almshouses, Perhaps thee 've heard before;) Perhaps thee 've heard about her all That I can tell, and more. 

The room behind that door,

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