THE ROPEWALK. There are things of which I may not speak ; 383 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 "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, "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 among the dreams of the days that were, 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, Human spiders spin and spin, At the end, an open door; As the spinners to the end Gleam the long threads in the sun; Two fair maidens in a swing, Then a booth of mountebanks, And a weary look of care. Then a homestead among farms, THE ROPEWALK. Then an old man in a tower, While the rope coils round and round And again, in swift retreat, Nearly lifts him from the ground. Then within a prison-yard, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a school-boy, with his kite And an eager, upward look; Ships rejoicing in the breeze, 385 Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, Sea-fog drifting overhead, And, with lessening line and lead, Sailors feeling for the land. All these scenes do I behold, In that building long and low; While the wheel goes round and round, 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, 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, Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. By the fireside there are old men seated, Asking sadly Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Of the Future what it cannot give them. By the fireside tragedies are acted And above them God the sole spectator. CATAWBA WINE. By the fireside there are peace and comfort, For a well-known footstep in the passage. Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-stone; Through the gateways of the world around him. 387 In his farthest wanderings still he sees it; When he sat with those who were, but are not. Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. We e 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 When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. It is not a song |