For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.

As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made: So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid!

Enough now, if the Right And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, With knowledge absolute, Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.

Be there, for once and all, Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?

Not on the vulgar mass Called "work," must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account; All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, That metaphor! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,— Thou, to whom fools propound, When the wine makes its round, "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day?"

Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: What entered into thee, That was, is, and shall be: Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.

He fixed thee 'mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, would fain arrest: Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent, Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.

What though the earlier grooves Which ran the laughing loves Around thy base, no longer pause and press? What though, about thy rim, Scull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

Look not thou down but up! To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, The new wine's foaming flow, The Master's lips a-glow! Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needest thou with earth's wheel?

But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who mouldest men; And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I—to the wheel of life With shapes and colors rife, Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake thy thirst:

So, take and use thy work: Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! My times be in thy hand! Perfect the cup as planned! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



HUMAN LIFE

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, Crumbling away beneath our very feet; Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing, In current unperceived because so fleet; Sad are our hopes for they were sweet in sowing, But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing; And still, O still, their dying breath is sweet: And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; And sweet our life's decline, for it hath left us A nearer Good to cure an older Ill: And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them.

Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902]



YOUNG AND OLD From "The Water Babies"

When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down: Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among: God grant you find one face there You loved when all was young.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]



THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO

Oh, a wonderful stream is the River Time, As it flows through the realm of Tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a broader sweep and a surge sublime As it blends with the ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow! And the summers like buds between; And the year in the sheaf—so they come and they go On the River's breast with its ebb and flow, As they glide in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical Isle up the River Time Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow— They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so! There are trinkets and tresses of hair.

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer, There's a harp unswept and a lute without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the River is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle All the day of our life till night, And when evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile, May that "Greenwood" of soul be in sight.

Benjamin Franklin Taylor [1819-1887]



GROWING OLD

What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wealth? —Yes, but not this alone.

Is it to feel our strength— Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more loosely strung?

Yes, this, and more; but not— Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be! 'Tis not to have our life Mellowed and softened as with sunset glow, A golden day's decline.

'Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, The years that are no more.

It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young; It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain.

It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion—none.

It is!—last stage of all— When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blessed the living man.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]



PAST

The clocks are chiming in my heart Their cobweb chime; Old murmurings of days that die, The sob of things a-drifting by. The clocks are chiming in my heart!

The stars have twinkled, and gone out— Fair candles blown! The hot desires burn low, and wan Those ashy fires, that flamed anon. The stars have twinkled, and gone out!

John Galsworthy [1867-1933]



TWILIGHT

When I was young the twilight seemed too long. How often on the western window-seat I leaned my book against the misty pane And spelled the last enchanting lines again, The while my mother hummed an ancient song, Or sighed a little and said: "The hour is sweet!" When I, rebellious, clamored for the light.

But now I love the soft approach of night, And now with folded hands I sit and dream While all too fleet the hours of twilight seem; And thus I know that I am growing old.

O granaries of Age! O manifold And royal harvest of the common years! There are in all thy treasure-house no ways But lead by soft descent and gradual slope To memories more exquisite than hope. Thine is the Iris born of olden tears, And thrice more happy are the happy days That live divinely in the lingering rays.

A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-



YOUTH AND AGE

Youth hath many charms,— Hath many joys, and much delight; Even its doubts, and vague alarms, By contrast make it bright: And yet—and yet—forsooth, I love Age as well as Youth!

Well, since I love them both, The good of both I will combine,— In women, I will look for Youth, And look for Age, in wine: And then—and then—I'll bless This twain that gives me happiness!

George Arnold [1834-1865]



FORTY YEARS ON

Forty years on, when afar and asunder Parted are those who are singing today, When you look back, and forgetfully wonder What you were like in your work and your play; Then, it may be, there will often come o'er you Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song— Visions of boyhood shall float them before you, Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along. Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Till the field ring again and again, With the tramp of the twenty-two men, Follow up! Follow up!

Routs and discomfitures, rushes and rallies, Bases attempted, and rescued, and won, Strife without anger, and art without malice,— How will it seem to you forty years on? Then, you will say, not a feverish minute Strained the weak heart, and the wavering knee, Never the battle raged hottest, but in it Neither the last nor the faintest were we! Follow up! Follow up!

O the great days, in the distance enchanted, Days of fresh air, in the rain and the sun, How we rejoiced as we struggled and panted— Hardly believable forty years on! How we discoursed of them, one with another, Auguring triumph, or balancing fate, Loved the ally with the heart of a brother, Hated the foe with a playing at hate! Follow up! Follow up!

Forty years on, growing older and older, Shorter in wind, and in memory long, Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder, What will it help you that once you were strong? God gives us bases to guard or beleaguer, Games to play out, whether earnest or fun, Fights for the fearless, and goals for the eager, Twenty, and thirty, and forty years on! Follow up! Follow up!

Edward Ernest Bowen [1836-1901]



DREGS

The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof, (This is the end of every song man sings!) The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain, Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain; And health and hope have gone the way of love Into the drear oblivion of lost things. Ghosts go along with us until the end; This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend. With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait For the dropped curtain and the closing gate: This is the end of all the songs man sings.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]



THE PARADOX OF TIME A Variation On Ronsard

"Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame! Las! le temps non: mais nous nous en allons!"

Time goes, you say? Ah no! Alas, Time stays, we go; Or else, were this not so, What need to chain the hours, For Youth were always ours? Time goes, you say?—ah no!

Ours is the eyes' deceit Of men whose flying feet Lead through some landscape low; We pass, and think we see The earth's fixed surface flee:— Alas, Time stays—we go!

Once in the days of old, Your locks were curling gold, And mine had shamed the crow. Now, in the self-same stage, We've reached the silver age; Time goes, you say?—ah no!

Once, when my voice was strong, I filled the woods with song To praise your "rose" and "snow"; My bird, that sang, is dead; Where are your roses fled? Alas, Time stays—we go!

See, in what traversed ways, What backward Fate delays The hopes we used to know; Where are our old desires?— Ah, where those vanished fires? Time goes, you say?—ah no!

How far, how far, O sweet, The past behind our feet Lies in the even-glow! Now, on the forward way, Let us fold hands, and pray; Alas, Time stays,—we go!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



AGE

Snow and stars, the same as ever In the days when I was young,— But their silver song, ah never, Never now is sung!

Cold the stars are, cold the earth is, Everything is grim and cold! Strange and drear the sound of mirth is— Life and I are old!

William Winter [1836-1917]



OMNIA SOMNIA

Dawn drives the dreams away, yet some abide. Once, in a tide of pale and sunless weather, I dreamed I wandered on a bare hillside, When suddenly the birds sang all together.

Still it was Winter, even in the dream; There was no leaf nor bud nor young grass springing; The skies shone cold above the frost-bound stream: It was not Spring, and yet the birds were singing.

Blackbird and thrush and plaintive willow-wren, Chaffinch and lark and linnet, all were calling; A golden web of music held me then, Innumerable voices, rising, falling.

O, never do the birds of April sing More sweet than in that dream I still remember: Perchance the heart may keep its songs of Spring Even through the wintry dream of life's December.

Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]



THE YEAR'S END

Full happy is the man who comes at last Into the safe completion of his year; Weathered the perils of his spring, that blast How many blossoms promising and dear! And of his summer, with dread passions fraught That oft, like fire through the ripening corn, Blight all with mocking death and leave distraught Loved ones to mourn the ruined waste forlorn. But now, though autumn gave but harvest slight, Oh, grateful is he to the powers above For winter's sunshine, and the lengthened night By hearth-side genial with the warmth of love. Through silvered days of vistas gold and green Contentedly he glides away, serene.

Timothy Cole [1852-1931]



AN OLD MAN'S SONG

Ye are young, ye are young, I am old, I am old; And the song has been sung And the story been told.

Your locks are as brown As the mavis in May, Your hearts are as warm As the sunshine to-day, But mine white and cold As the snow on the brae.

And Love, like a flower, Is growing for you, Hands clasping, lips meeting, Hearts beating so true; While Fame like a star In the midnight afar Is flashing for you.

For you the To-come, But for me the Gone-by, You are panting to live, I am waiting to die; The meadow is empty, No flower groweth high, And naught but a socket The face of the sky.

Yea, how so we dream, Or how bravely we do; The end is the same, Be we traitor or true: And after the bloom And the passion is past, Death cometh at last.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-



SONGS OF SEVEN

Seven Times One.—EXULTATION

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven; I've said my "seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old, I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one times one.

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright! ah, bright! but your light is failing,— You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face? I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold! O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold!

O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell? O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,— I am seven times one to-day.



Seven Times Two.—ROMANCE

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me.

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather Preparing her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: Oh! children take long to grow.

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head; "The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story,—the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh, bring it! Such as I wish it to be.

Seven Times Three.—LOVE

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate, "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover,— Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters grow, Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me.

"You night-moths that hover, where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep,—

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright.

Seven Times Four.—MATERNITY

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups; Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow,"— Sing once, and sing it again.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks of you now.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all!

Seven Times Five.—WIDOWHOOD

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan Before I am well awake; "Let me bleed! O let me alone, Since I must not break!"

For children wake, though fathers sleep With a stone at foot and at head: O sleepless God, forever keep, Keep both living and dead!

I lift mine eyes, and what to see But a world happy and fair! I have not wished it to mourn with me,— Comfort is not there.

Oh, what anear but golden brooms, But a waste of reedy rills! Oh, what afar but the fine glooms On the rare blue hills!

I shall not die, but live forlore,— How bitter it is to part! Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more! O my heart, my heart!

No more to hear, no more to see! Oh, that an echo might wake And waft one note of thy psalm to me Ere my heart-strings break!

I should know it how faint soe'er, And with angel voices blent; Oh, once to feel thy spirit anear; I could be content!

Or once between the gates of gold, While an entering angel trod, But once,—thee sitting to behold On the hills of God!

Seven Times Six.—GIVING IN MARRIAGE

To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose: To see my bright ones disappear, Drawn up like morning dews,— To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch and then to lose: This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose.

To hear, to heed, to wed, And with thy lord depart In tears, that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart,— To hear, to heed, to wed, This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, "Mother, give ME thy child."

O fond, O fool, and blind! To God I gave with tears; But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears,— O fond, O fool, and blind! God guards in happier spheres; That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years.

To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views; Thy mother's lot, my dear, She doth in naught accuse; Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love,—and then to lose.

Seven Times Seven.—LONGING FOR HOME

A song of a boat:— There was once a boat on a billow: Lightly she rocked to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow, And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, And bent like a wand of willow.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtsying over the billow, I marked her course till a dancing mote, She faded out on the moonlit foam, And I stayed behind in the dear-loved home; And my thoughts all day were about the boat, And my dreams upon the pillow.

I pray you hear my song of a boat For it is but short:— My boat you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port. Long I looked out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea, And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, For he came not back to me— Ah me!

A song of a nest:— There was once a nest in a hollow: Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, Soft and warm and full to the brim— Vetches leaned over it purple, and dim, With buttercup buds to follow.

I pray you hear my song of a nest, For it is not long:— You shall never light in a summer quest The bushes among— Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestful, nor ever know A softer sound than their tender twitter, That wind-like did come and go.

I had a nestful once of my own, Ah, happy, happy I! Right dearly I loved them; but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly— Oh, one after one they flew away Far up to the heavenly blue, To the better country, the upper day, And—I wish I was going too.

I pray you what is the nest to me, My empty nest? And what is the shore where I stood to see My boat sail down to the west? Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Though my good man has sailed? Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope hath failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be: There is the home where my thoughts are sent The only home for me— Ah me!

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]



AUSPEX

My heart, I cannot still it, Nest that had song-birds in it; And when the last shall go, The dreary days, to fill it, Instead of lark or linnet, Shall whirl dead leaves and snow.

Had they been swallows only, Without the passion stronger That skyward longs and sings,— Woe's me, I shall be lonely When I can feel no longer The impatience of their wings!

A moment, sweet delusion, Like birds the brown leaves hover; But it will not be long Before their wild confusion Fall wavering down to cover The poet and his song.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]



LOOKING BACKWARD



THE RETREAT



Happy those early days, when I Shined in my Angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white, celestial thought; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back, at that short space, Could see a glimpse of His bright face; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My Conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense; But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness.

O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train; From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady City of Palm-trees. But ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way! Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And, when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return.

Henry Vaughan [1622-1695]



A SUPERSCRIPTION

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through thy soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,— Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti [1828-1882]



THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN

When to the garden of untroubled thought I came of late, and saw the open door, And wished again to enter, and explore The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought, And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak before I dared to tread that garden loved of yore, That Eden lost unknown and found unsought. Then just within the gate I saw a child,— A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear,— Who held his hands to me and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear; "Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be."

Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933]



CASTLES IN THE AIR

My thoughts by night are often filled With visions false as fair: For in the Past alone I build My castles in the air.

I dwell not now on what may be; Night shadows o'er the scene; But still my fancy wanders free Through that which might have been.

Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]



SOMETIMES

Across the fields of yesterday He sometimes comes to me, A little lad just back from play— The lad I used to be.

And yet he smiles so wistfully Once he has crept within, I wonder if he hopes to see The man I might have been.

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]



THE LITTLE GHOSTS

Where are they gone, and do you know If they come back at fall o' dew, The little ghosts of long ago, That long ago were you?

And all the songs that ne'er were sung. And all the dreams that ne'er came true, Like little children dying young— Do they come back to you?

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]



MY OTHER ME

Children, do you ever, In walks by land or sea, Meet a little maiden Long time lost to me?

She is gay and gladsome, Has a laughing face, And a heart as sunny; And her name is Grace.

Naught she knows of sorrow, Naught of doubt or blight; Heaven is just above her— All her thoughts are white.

Long time since I lost her, That other Me of mine; She crossed, into Time's shadow Out of Youth's sunshine.

Now the darkness keeps her; And, call her as I will, The years that lie between us Hide her from me still.

I am dull and pain-worn, And lonely as can be— Oh, children, if you meet her, Send back my other Me!

Grace Denio Litchfield [1849-



A SHADOW BOAT

Under my keel another boat Sails as I sail, floats as I float; Silent and dim and mystic still, It steals through that weird nether-world, Mocking my power, though at my will The foam before its prow is curled, Or calm it lies, with canvas furled.

Vainly I peer, and fain would see What phantom in that boat may be; Yet half I dread, lest I with ruth Some ghost of my dead past divine, Some gracious shape of my lost youth, Whose deathless eyes once fixed on mine Would draw me downward through the brine!

Arlo Bates [1850-1918]



A LAD THAT IS GONE

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.

Mull was astern, Rum on the port, Eigg on the starboard bow; Glory of youth glowed in his soul: Where is that glory now?

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.

Give me again all that was there, Give me the sun that shone! Give me the eyes, give me the soul, Give me the lad that's gone!

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.

Billow and breeze, islands and seas, Mountains of rain and sun, All that was good, all that was fair, All that was me is gone.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



CARCASSONNE

"I'm growing old, I've sixty years; I've labored all my life in vain. In all that time of hopes and fears, I've failed my dearest wish to gain. I see full well that here below Bliss unalloyed there is for none; My prayer would else fulfilment know— Never have I seen Carcassonne!

"You see the city from the hill, It lies beyond the mountains blue; And yet to reach it one must still Five long and weary leagues pursue, And, to return, as many more. Had but the vintage plenteous grown— But, ah! the grape withheld its store. I shall not look on Carcassonne!

"They tell me every day is there Not more or less than Sunday gay; In shining robes and garments fair The people walk upon their way. One gazes there on castle walls As grand as those of Babylon, A bishop and two generals! What joy to dwell in Carcassonne!

"The vicar's right: he says that we Are ever wayward, weak, and blind; He tells us in his homily Ambition ruins all mankind; Yet could I there two days have spent, While still the autumn sweetly shone, Ah, me! I might have died content When I had looked on Carcassonne.

"Thy pardon, Father, I beseech, In this my prayer if I offend; One something sees beyond his reach From childhood to his journey's end. My wife, our little boy, Aignan, Have travelled even to Narbonne; My grandchild has seen Perpignan; And I—have not seen Carcassonne!"

So crooned, one day, close by Limoux, A peasant, double-bent with age. "Rise up, my friend," said I; "with you I'll go upon this pilgrimage." We left, next morning, his abode, But (Heaven forgive him!) half-way on The old man died upon the road. He never gazed on Carcassonne.

Translated by John R. Thompson from the French of Gustave Nadaud [1820-? ]



CHILDHOOD

Old Sorrow I shall meet again, And Joy, perchance—but never, never, Happy Childhood, shall we twain See each other's face forever!

And yet I would not call thee back, Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me, Thine old companion, on the rack Of Age, should sadden even thee.

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]



THE WASTREL

Once, when I was little, as the summer night was falling, Among the purple upland fields I lost my barefoot way; The road to home was hidden fast, and frightful shadows, crawling Along the sky-line, swallowed up the last kind light of day; And then I seemed to hear you In the twilight; and be near you; Seemed to hear your dear voice calling— Through the meadows, calling, calling— And I followed and I found you, Flung my tired arms around you, And rested on the mother-breast, returned, tired out from play.

Down the days from that day, though I trod strange paths unheeding, Though I chased the jack-o'-lanterns of so many maddened years, Though I never looked behind me, where the home-lights were receding, Though I never looked enough ahead to ken the Inn of Fears; Still I knew your heart was near me, That your ear was strained to hear me, That your love would need no pleading To forgive me, but was pleading Of its self that, in disaster, I should run to you the faster And be sure that I was dearer for your sacrifice of tears.

Now on life's last Summertime the long last dusk is falling, And I, who trod one way so long, can tread no other way Until at death's dim crossroads I watch, hesitant, the crawling Night-passages that maze me with the ultimate dismay. Then when Death and Doubt shall blind me— Even then—I know you'll find me: I shall hear you, Mother, calling— Hear you calling—calling—calling: I shall fight and follow—find you Though the grave-clothes swathe and bind you, And I know your love will answer: "Here's my laddie home from play!"

Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-



TROIA FUIT

The world was wide when I was young, My schoolday hills and dales among; But, oh, it needs no Puck to put, With whipping wing and flying foot, A girdle 'round the narrow sphere In which I labor now and here!

Life's face was fair when careless I First loved beneath an April sky, And wept those fine-imagined woes That youth at nineteen thinks it knows; Now love and woe both run so deep I have not any time to weep.

No matter; though at last we see That what was could not always be, It girds our loins and steels our hands In duller days and smaller lands To recollect the country where The world was wide and life was fair.

Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-



TEMPLE GARLANDS

There is a temple in my heart Where moth or rust can never come, A temple swept and set apart, To make my soul a home.

And round about the doors of it Hang garlands that forever last, That gathered once are always sweet; The roses of the Past!

A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-



TIME LONG PAST

Like the ghost of a dear friend dead Is Time long past. A tone which is now forever fled, A hope which is now forever past, A love so sweet it could not last, Was Time long past.

There were sweet dreams in the night Of Time long past: And, was it sadness or delight, Each day a shadow onward cast Which made us wish it yet might last,— That Time long past.

There is regret, almost remorse, For Time long past. 'Tis like a child's beloved corse A father watches, till at last Beauty is like remembrance, cast From Time long past.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



"I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER"

I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups— Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And though the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, The summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]



MY LOST YOUTH

Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth, are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o'er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay Where they in battle died. 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 school-boy'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 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."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]



"VOICE OF THE WESTERN WIND"

Voice of the western wind! Thou singest from afar, Rich with the music of a land Where all my memories are; But in thy song I only hear The echo of a tone That fell divinely on my ear In days forever flown.

Star of the western sky! Thou beamest from afar, With lustre caught from eyes I knew Whose orbs were each a star; But, oh, those orbs—too wildly bright— No more eclipse thine own, And never shall I find the light Of days forever flown!

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]



LANGSYNE, WHEN LIFE WAS BONNIE"

Langsyne, when life was bonnie, An' a' the skies were blue, When ilka thocht took blossom, An' hung its heid wi' dew, When winter wasna winter, Though snaws cam' happin' doon, Langsyne, when life was bonnie, Spring gaed a twalmonth roun'.

Langsyne, when life was bonnie, An' a' the days were lang; When through them ran the music That comes to us in sang, We never wearied liltin' The auld love-laden tune; Langsyne, when life was bonnie, Love gaed a twalmonth roun'.

Langsyne, when life was bonnie, An' a' the warld was fair, The leaves were green wi' simmer, For autumn wasna there. But listen hoo they rustle, Wi' an eerie, weary soun', For noo, alas, 'tis winter That gangs a twalmonth roun'.

Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]



THE SHOOGY-SHOO

I do be thinking, lassie, of the old days now; For oh! your hair is tangled gold above your Irish brow; And oh! your eyes are fairy flax! no other eyes so blue; Come nestle in my arms, and swing upon the shoogy-shoo.

Sweet and slow, swinging low, eyes of Irish blue, All my heart is swinging, dear, swinging here with you; Irish eyes are like the flax, and mine are wet with dew, Thinking of the old days upon the shoogy-shoo.

When meadow-larks would singing be in old Glentair, Was one sweet lass had eyes of blue and tangled golden hair; She was a wee bit girleen then, dear heart, the like of you, When we two swung the braes among, upon the shoogy-shoo.

Ah well, the world goes up and down, and some sweet day Its shoogy-shoo will swing us two where sighs will pass away; So nestle close your bonnie head, and close your eyes so true, And swing with me, and memory, upon the shoogy-shoo.

Sweet and slow, swinging low, eyes of Irish blue, All my heart is swinging, dear, swinging here with you; Irish eyes are like the flax, and mine are wet with dew, Thinking of the old days upon the shoogy-shoo.

Winthrop Packard [1862-



BABYLON "We shall meet again in Babylon."

I'm going softly all my years in wisdom if in pain— For, oh, the music stirs my blood as once it did before, And still I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The dancing feet in Babylon, of those who took my floor.

I'm going silent all my years, but garnered in my brain Is that swift wit which used to flash and cut them like a sword— And now I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The foolish tongues in Babylon, of those who took my word.

I'm going lonely all my days, who was the first to crave The second, fierce, unsteady voice, that struggled to speak free— And now I watch in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The pallid loves in Babylon of men who once loved me.

I'm sleeping early by a flame as one content and gray, But, oh, I dream a dream of dreams beneath a winter moon, I breathe the breath of Babylon, of Babylon, of Babylon, The scent of silks in Babylon that floated to a tune.

A band of years has flogged me out—an exile's fate is mine, To sit with mumbling crones and still a heart that cries with youth. But, oh, to walk in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The happy streets in Babylon, when once the dream was truth.

Viola Taylor [18



THE ROAD OF REMEMBRANCE

The old wind stirs the hawthorn tree; The tree is blossoming; Northward the road runs to the sea, And past the House of Spring.

The folk go down it unafraid; The still roofs rise before; When you were lad and I was maid, Wide open stood the door.

Now, other children crowd the stair, And hunt from room to room; Outside, under the hawthorn fair, We pluck the thorny bloom.

Out in the quiet road we stand, Shut in from wharf and mart, The old wind blowing up the land, The old thoughts at our heart.

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]



THE TRIUMPH OF FORGOTTEN THINGS

There is a pity in forgotten things, Banished the heart they can no longer fill, Since restless Fancy, spreading swallow wings, Must seek new pleasures still!

There is a patience, too, in things forgot; They wait—they find the portal long unused; And knocking there, it shall refuse them not,— Nor aught shall be refused!

Ah, yes! though we, unheeding years on years, In alien pledges spend the heart's estate, They bide some blessed moment of quick tears— Some moment without date—

Some gleam on flower, or leaf, or beaded dew, Some tremble at the ear of memoried sound Of mother-song,—they seize the slender clew,— The old loves gather round!

When that which lured us once now lureth not, But the tired hands their garnered dross let fall, This is the triumph of the things forgot— To hear the tired heart call!

And they are with us at Life's farthest reach, A light when into shadow all else dips, As, in the stranger's land, their native speech Returns to dying lips!

Edith M. Thomas [1854-1925]



IN THE TWILIGHT

Men say the sullen instrument, That, from the Master's bow, With pangs of joy or woe, Feels music's soul through every fibre sent, Whispers the ravished strings More than he knew or meant; Old summers in its memory glow; The secrets of the wind it sings; It hears the April-loosened springs; And mixes with its mood All it dreamed when it stood In the murmurous pine-wood Long ago!

The magical moonlight then Steeped every bough and cone; The roar of the brook in the glen Came dim from the distance blown; The wind through its glooms sang low, And it swayed to and fro, With delight as it stood, In the wonderful wood, Long ago!

O my life, have we not had seasons That only said, Live and rejoice? That asked not for causes and reasons, But made us all feeling and voice? When we went with the winds in their blowing, When Nature and we were peers, And we seemed to share in the flowing Of the inexhaustible years? Have we not from the earth drawn juices Too fine for earth's sordid uses? Have I heard, have I seen All I feel, all I know? Doth my heart overween? Or could it have been Long ago?

Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent, That makes the ghost seem nigh me Of a splendor that came and went, Of a life lived somewhere, I know not In what diviner sphere, Of memories that stay not and go not, Like music heard once by an ear That cannot forget or reclaim it, A something so shy, it would shame it To make it a show, A something too vague, could I name it, For others to know, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, As if I had acted or schemed it, Long ago!

And yet, could I live it over, This life that stirs in my brain, Could I be both maiden and lover, Moon and tide, bee and clover, As I seem to have been, once again, Could I but speak it and show it, This pleasure more sharp than pain, That baffles and lures me so, The world should once more have a poet, Such as it had In the ages glad, Long ago!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]



AN IMMORALITY

Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land, There is naught else in living.

And I would rather have my sweet, Though rose-leaves die of grieving, Than do high deeds in Hungary To pass all men's believing.

Ezra Pound [1885-



THREE SEASONS

"A cup for hope!" she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red.

"A cup for love!" how low, How soft the words; and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow.

"A cup for memory!" Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea.

Hope, memory, love: Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening gray And solitary dove.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a Love once, fairest among women: Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces—

How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

Charles Lamb [1775-1834]



THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all The friends, so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



"TEARS, IDLE TEARS" From "The Princess"

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



THE PET NAME

"... the name Which from their lips seemed a caress." —-Miss Milford's "Dramatic Scenes"

I have a name, a little name, Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear.

It never did to pages wove For gay romance belong; It never dedicate did move As "Sacharissa" unto love, "Orinda" unto song.

Though I write books, it will be read Upon the leaves of none, And afterward, when I am dead, Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread, Across my funeral-stone.

This name, whoever chance to call, Perhaps your smile may win: Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fall Over mine eyes and feel withal The sudden tears within.

Is there a leaf, that greenly grows Where summer meadows bloom, But gathereth the winter snows, And changeth to the hue of those, If lasting till they come?

Is there a word, or jest, or game, But time incrusteth round With sad associate thoughts the same? And so to me my very name Assumes a mournful sound.

My brother gave that name to me When we were children twain, When names acquired baptismally Were hard to utter, as to see That life had any pain.

No shade was on us then, save one Of chestnuts from the hill; And through the word our laugh did run As part thereof: the mirth being done, He calls me by it still.

Nay, do not smile! I hear in it What none of you can hear,— The talk upon the willow seat, The bird and wind that did repeat Around, our human cheer.

I hear the birthday's noisy bliss My sisters' woodland glee, My father's praise I did not miss When stooping down, he cared to kiss The poet at his knee,—

And voices which, to name me, aye Their tenderest tones were keeping,— To some I nevermore can say An answer till God wipes away In heaven these drops of weeping.

My name to me a sadness wears: No murmurs cross my mind— Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind.

Now God be thanked for years enwrought With love which softens yet: Now God be thanked for every thought Which is so tender it has caught Earth's guerdon of regret.

Earth saddens, never shall remove Affections purely given; And e'en that mortal grief shall prove The immortality of love, And heighten it with Heaven.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]



THREESCORE AND TEN

Who reach their threescore years and ten, As I have mine, without a sigh, Are either more or less than men— Not such am I.

I am not of them; life to me Has been a strange, bewildering dream, Wherein I knew not things that be From things that seem.

I thought, I hoped, I knew one thing, And had one gift, when I was young— The impulse and the power to sing, And so I sung.

To have a place in the high choir Of poets, and deserve the same— What more could mortal man desire Than poet's fame?

I sought it long, but never found; The choir so full was and so strong The jubilant voices there, they drowned My simple song.

Men would not hear me then, and now I care not, I accept my fate, When white hairs thatch the furrowed brow Crowns come too late!

The best of life went long ago From me; it was not much at best; Only the love that young hearts know, The dear unrest.

Back on my past, through gathering tears, Once more I cast my eyes, and see Bright shapes that in my better years Surrounded me!

They left me here, they left me there, Went down dark pathways, one by one— The wise, the great, the young, the fair; But I went on.

And I go on! And bad or good, The old allotted years of men I have endured as best I could, Threescore and ten!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]



RAIN ON THE ROOF

When the humid shadows hover Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter Of the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shingles Has an echo in the heart; And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start, And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof.

Now in memory comes my mother, As she used, in years agone, To regard the darling dreamers Ere she left them till the dawn; And I feel her fond look on me, As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brother— A serene angelic pair— Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes, to thrill me With her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her, That her heart was all untrue: I remember but to love her With a passion kin to pain, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate To the patter of the rain.

Art hath naught of tone or cadence That can work with such a spell In the soul's mysterious fountains, Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of nature, That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.

Coates Kinney [1826-1904]



ALONE BY THE HEARTH

Here, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, Sit I alone: And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember Days long agone. Saddening it is when the night has descended, Thus to sit here, Pensively musing on episodes ended Many a year.

Still in my visions a golden-haired glory Flits to and fro; She whom I loved—but 'tis just the old story: Dead, long ago. 'Tis but a wraith of love; yet I linger (Thus passion errs), Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger— Once it was hers.

Nothing has changed since her spirit departed, Here, in this room Save I, who, weary, and half broken-hearted, Sit in the gloom. Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes, Dreary and cold; Over the floor the red fire-light flashes Just as of old.

Just as of old—but the embers are scattered, Whose ruddy blaze Flashed o'er the floor where the fairy feet pattered In other days! Then, her dear voice, like a silver chime ringing, Melted away; Often these walls have re-echoed her singing, Now hushed for aye!

Why should love bring naught but sorrow, I wonder? Everything dies! Time and death, sooner or later, must sunder Holiest ties. Years have rolled by; I am wiser and older— Wiser, but yet Not till my heart and its feelings grow colder, Can I forget.

So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, Sit I alone; And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember Days long agone!

George Arnold [1834-1865]



THE OLD MAN DREAMS

Oh for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring! I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy, Than reign, a gray-beard king.

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! Away with Learning's crown! Tear out life's Wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame!

My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair, Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?"

"Ah, truest soul of womankind! Without thee what were life? One bliss I cannot leave behind: I'll take—my—precious—wife!"

The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, The man would be a boy again, And be a husband, too!

"And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years."

"Why, yes;" for memory would recall My fond paternal joys; "I could not bear to leave them all— I'll take—my—girl—and—boys."

The smiling angel dropped his pen,— "Why, this will never do; The man would be a boy again, And be a father, too!"

And so I laughed,—my laughter woke The household with its noise,— And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys.

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]



THE GARRET After Beranger

With pensive eyes the little room I view, Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long; With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two, And a light heart still breaking into song: Making a mock of life, and all its cares, Rich in the glory of my rising sun, Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Yes; 'tis a garret—let him know't who will— There was my bed—full hard it was and small; My table there—and I decipher still Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away, Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun; For you I pawned my watch how many a day, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

And see my little Jessy, first of all; She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes: Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise; Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, And when did woman look the worse in none? I have heard since who paid for many a gown, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

One jolly evening, when my friends and I Made happy music with our songs and cheers, A shout of triumph mounted up thus high, And distant cannon opened on our ears: We rise,—we join in the triumphant strain,— Napoleon conquers—Austerlitz is won— Tyrants shall never tread us down again, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Let us begone—the place is sad and strange— How far, far off, these happy times appear; All that I have to live I'd gladly change For one such month as I have wasted here— To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, From founts of hope that never will outrun, And drink all life's quintessence in an hour, Give me the days when I was twenty-one!

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]



AULD LANG SYNE

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.

We twa hae rin about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wandered monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine, And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



ROCK ME TO SLEEP

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears,— Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,— Take them, and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay,— Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between: Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone; No other worship abides and endures,— Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours: None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold. Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song: Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]



THE BUCKET

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet would tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!

Samuel Woodworth [1785-1842]



THE GRAPE-VINE SWING

Lithe and long as the serpent train, Springing and clinging from tree to tree, Now darting upward, now down again, With a twist and a twirl that are strange to see; Never took serpent a deadlier hold, Never the cougar a wilder spring, Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, Spanning the beach with the condor's wing.

Yet no foe that we fear to seek,— The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace; Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek As ever on lover's breast found place; On thy waving train is a playful hold Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade; While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold, And swings and sings in the noonday shade!

O giant strange of our Southern woods! I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean floods, And the Northern forest beholds thee not; I think of thee still with a sweet regret, As the cordage yields to my playful grasp,— Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet? Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp?

William Gilmore Simms [1806-1870]



THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know Before we could remember anything but the eyes Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle, And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore, When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, It made me love myself as I leaped to caress My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness. But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways, How pleasant was the journey down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole They was lots o' fun on hand at the old swimmin'-hole. But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.

Thare the bulrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all; And it mottled the worter with amber and gold Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled; And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky, Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be— But never again will theyr shade shelter me! And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]



FORTY YEARS AGO

I've wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the schoolhouse playground, that sheltered you and me; But none were there to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon that green some forty years ago.

The grass is just as green, Tom; barefooted boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay. But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding-place some forty years ago.

The old schoolhouse is altered some; the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our jackknives once defaced; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro; Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas forty years ago.

The boys were playing some old game, beneath that same old tree; I have forgot the name just now—you've played the same with me, On that same spot; 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so; The loser had a task to do, there, forty years ago.

The river's running just as still; the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts—pretty girls—just forty years ago.

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low—'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach; And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed since forty years ago.

Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some forty years ago.

My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes; I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties; I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strow Upon the graves of those we loved some forty years ago.

Some are in the churchyard laid, some sleep beneath the sea, And none are left of our old class, excepting you and me; But when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope we'll meet with those we loved some forty years ago.

Unknown [Sometimes called "Twenty Years Ago." Claimed for A. J. Gault (1818-1903) by his family]



BEN BOLT

Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,— Sweet Alice whose hair was so Brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown? In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, And Alice lies under the stone.

Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we've lain in the noonday shade, And listened to Appleton's mill. The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in, And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze Has followed the olden din.

Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt. At the edge of the pathless wood, And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, Which nigh by the doorstep stood? The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek for in vain; And where once the lords of the forest waved Are grass and the golden grain.

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With the master so cruel and grim, And the shaded nook in the running brook Where the children went to swim? Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, The spring of the brook is dry, And of all the boys who were schoolmates then There are only you and I.

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new; But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth, There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends—yet I hail Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale.

Thomas Dunn English [1819-1902]



"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK"

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on, To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

THE END