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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
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."
In that building, long and low,
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;
Light the long and dusky lane;
All its spokes are in my brain. .
As the spinners to the end
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,
First before my vision pass ;
At their shadow on the grass.
Then a booth of mountebanks,
And a girl poised high in air
And a weary look of care.
Then a homestead among farms,
Drawing water from a well ;
As at some magician's spell.
Then an old man in a tower,
While the rope coils round and round
Nearly lifts him from the ground.
Then within a prison-yard,
Laughter and indecent mirth;
Blow, and sweep it from the earth!
Then a school-boy, with his kite
And an eager, upward look ;
And an angler by a brook.
Ships rejoicing in the breeze,
Anchors dragged through faithless sand;
Sailors feeling for the land.
All these scenes do I behold,
In that building long and low;
And the spinners backward go.
THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE.
LEAFLESS are the trees; their purple branches
From the hundred chimneys of the village,
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,
For its freedom
By the fireside there are old men seated,
By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,
By the fireside tragedies are acted
Wife and husband,
By the fireside there are peace and comfort,
Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-stone; 1the central point, from which he measures
Every distance Through the gateways of the world around him.
In his farthest wanderings still he sees it;
As he heard them
Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion,
Drives an exile
We may build more splendid habitations,
But we cannot
This song of mine
Is a Song of the Vine,
Of wayside inns,
When the rain begins
It is not a song