And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods;And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the schoolboy's brain;The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."There are things of which I may not speak;There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town;But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."THE ROPEWALK
In that building, long and low, With its windows all a-row, Like the port-holes of a hulk, Human spiders spin and spin, Backward down their threads so thin Dropping, each a hempen bulk.
At the end, an open door;
Squares of sunshine on the floor Light the long and dusky lane;And the whirring of a wheel, Dull and drowsy, makes me feel All its spokes are in my brain.
As the spinners to the end Downward go and reascend, Gleam the long threads in the sun;While within this brain of mine Cobwebs brighter and more fine By the busy wheel are spun.
Two fair maidens in a swing, Like white doves upon the wing, First before my vision pass;Laughing, as their gentle hands Closely clasp the twisted strands, At their shadow on the grass.
Then a booth of mountebanks, With its smell of tan and planks, And a girl poised high in air On a cord, in spangled dress, With a faded loveliness, And a weary look of care.
Then a homestead among farms, And a woman with bare arms Drawing water from a well;As the bucket mounts apace, With it mounts her own fair face, As at some magician's spell.
Then an old man in a tower, Ringing loud the noontide hour, While the rope coils round and round Like a serpent at his feet, And again, in swift retreat, Nearly lifts him from the ground.
Then within a prison-yard, Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, Laughter and indecent mirth;Ah! it is the gallows-tree!
Breath of Christian charity, Blow, and sweep it from the earth!
Then a school-boy, with his kite Gleaming in a sky of light, And an eager, upward look;Steeds pursued through lane and field;
Fowlers with their snares concealed;
And an angler by a brook.
Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, Anchors dragged through faithless sand;Sea-fog drifting overhead, And, with lessening line and lead, Sailors feeling for the land.
All these scenes do I behold, These, and many left untold, In that building long and low;While the wheel goes round and round, With a drowsy, dreamy sound, And the spinners backward go.
THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE
Leafless are the trees; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, Rising silent In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset.
From the hundred chimneys of the village, Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, Smoky columns Tower aloft into the air of amber.
At the window winks the flickering fire-light;Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, Social watch-fires Answering one another through the darkness.
On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree For its freedom Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.
By the fireside there are old men seated, Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, Asking sadly Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.
By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Building castles fair, with stately stairways, Asking blindly Of the Future what it cannot give them.
By the fireside tragedies are acted In whose scenes appear two actors only, Wife and husband, And above them God the sole spectator.
By the fireside there are peace and comfort, Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, Waiting, watching For a well-known footstep in the passage.
Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-stone;Is the central point, from which he measures Every distance Through the gateways of the world around him.
In his farthest wanderings still he sees it;Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, As he heard them When he sat with those who were, but are not.
Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Nor the march of the encroaching city, Drives an exile From the hearth of his ancestral homestead.
We may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, But we cannot Buy with gold the old associations!
CATAWBA WINE
This song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers.
It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, From warm Carolinian valleys, Nor the Isabel And the Muscadel That bask in our garden alleys.
Nor the red Mustang, Whose clusters hang O'er the waves of the Colorado, And the fiery flood Of whose purple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado.
