Change by Edith Nesbit — Read

There's a little house by an orchard side / Where the Spring wears pink and white; / There's a garden with pansies and London pride, / And a bush of lad's delight.

Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen / As trim as a garden can be, / And the grass of the orchard is much more green / Than most of the grass you see.

There used to be always a mother's smile / And a father's face at the door, / When one clambered over the orchard stile, / So glad to be home once more.

But now I never go by that way, / For when I was there of late, / A stranger was cutting the orchard hay, / And a stranger leaned on the gate.