 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
WHAT THE TRAIN RAN OVER.
When the train came shrieking down,
Did you see what it ran over?
I saw heads of golden brown,
Little plump hands filled with clover.
Yes, I saw them, boys and girls,
With no look or thought of flitting;
Not a tremble in their curls;—
Where the track runs they were sitting.
Did you see what it ran over?
I saw heads of golden brown,
Little plump hands filled with clover.
Yes, I saw them, boys and girls,
With no look or thought of flitting;
Not a tremble in their curls;—
Where the track runs they were sitting.
From the windows of the train
I could see what they were doing;
I could see their faces, plain:
Some with dreamy eyes pursuing
Flight of passing cloud or bird;
Others childish ditties flinging
On the air; I almost heard
What the song was they were singing.
I could see what they were doing;
I could see their faces, plain:
Some with dreamy eyes pursuing
160
Others childish ditties flinging
On the air; I almost heard
What the song was they were singing.
They were well-known faces, too;
Do you marvel that I shiver
As I picture them to you
Playing there beside the river?
With them I myself have played
On that very spot: I wonder
Why I never was afraid
Of the coming railway-thunder.
Do you marvel that I shiver
As I picture them to you
Playing there beside the river?
With them I myself have played
On that very spot: I wonder
Why I never was afraid
Of the coming railway-thunder.
Little, sunburnt, barefoot boys
In the shallow water wading,
Sea-birds scattering with your noise,
Ragged hats your rogue-looks shading,
Will your sparkling eyes upon
Yonder waves again flash never?
Is your heartsome laughter gone
From the tired old world forever?
In the shallow water wading,
Sea-birds scattering with your noise,
Ragged hats your rogue-looks shading,
Will your sparkling eyes upon
Yonder waves again flash never?
Is your heartsome laughter gone
From the tired old world forever?
Dimpled Ruth, with brow of snow!
Never thought I to outlive her,
While we watched the white boats go
Up and down the small tide-river,
Past dark steeps of juniper,
Ever widening, ever flowing
To the sea; I mourn for her,
Gone so far beyond my knowing!
Never thought I to outlive her,
While we watched the white boats go
Up and down the small tide-river,
Past dark steeps of juniper,
Ever widening, ever flowing
To the sea; I mourn for her,
Gone so far beyond my knowing!
Well, the cruel train rolls on.
What! your eyes with tears are filling
For my pretty playmates gone?
Child, I am to blame for chilling
All your warm young fancies so:
There are real troubles, plenty!
They lived—forty years ago;
And the road has run here twenty.
What! your eyes with tears are filling
For my pretty playmates gone?
Child, I am to blame for chilling
All your warm young fancies so:
There are real troubles, plenty!
They lived—forty years ago;
And the road has run here twenty.
And those children,—I was one,—
Busy men and women, wander
Under life's midsummer sun.
One or two have gone home yonder
Out of sight. But still I see
Golden heads amid the clover
On the railway-track; to me
This is what the train runs over.
Busy men and women, wander
Under life's midsummer sun.
One or two have gone home yonder
Out of sight. But still I see
Golden heads amid the clover
On the railway-track; to me
This is what the train runs over.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |