I hope you don't insist on originals, Alice.

from Frost's "Ghost House:

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me --
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
as sweet companions as might be had.

from: "Silent Hill," by Z K Snyder

My grandma says that back before her day,
There was a fine house there upon the crest,
Where now a blackened chimney leans to rest
Against the sky. And now and then nearby,
Like a leaf of ash, a dark bird drifts without a cry.
Nothing else goes there. No boys climb up to play.
Even the wild deer seem to keep away.
But Anne is not afraid. And sometimes we go near
To listen to the soft hush, deep as fear,
Heavy as smoke, that seems to hang there still,
Where only dreams walk now -- on Silent Hill.

from Yeats' "Stolen Child:"

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

I'll stop; this is one of my favorite subjects.