modern poetry

i expect you
he's gone
she heard the children playing in the sun
i have heard them in the night
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
eighty years have passed, and more
days endeared to every muse
she was a beauty in the days
made up of loveliness alone
melancholy, blue it was
last midnight
what was it the engines said