Poems by John Howard Bryant :: :: University of Virginia Library

In the shadow of the maples,
That cluster round my home,
I watch the silent changes,
That with the seasons come.

'Tis six and forty summers,
Since the naked prairie land,
With the slender forest saplings,
Was planted by my hand.

Then so slender, now so sturdy,
Their round tops towering high,
While beneath them on the greensward,
The broad, dark shadows lie.

And still in youthful vigor,
The struggling branches climb;
While my life's powers are ebbing,
With the passing years of time.

Beneath these spreading branches,
Cool as the sky o'ercast
I dream of the boundless future,
And muse on the mighty past.

Here sometimes quiet voices.
Speak to my inner ear,
In soft and tender accents,
What none but I can hear.

And I think, but not with sadness,
When I in earth am laid,
How after generations
Will bless this grateful shade.

Here friends in social converse,
Pass happy hours away,
And then, as now, will graybeards
Find pastime in croquet.

Here then, shall children gather,
For sport at summer noon,
When clover blooms are drooping,
In the burning heat of June.

Here each returning season,
Build the robin and the jay,
And the oriole and throstle
Sing the summer months away.

I love those merry wood-birds,
And sitting here I bless
The gentle winds that pass me,
With whisper and caress.

O! birds and summer zephyrs,
In a better home than this,
Shall I hear your joyous singing,
And feel the soft wind's kiss?

And the once familiar faces
That I yearn to see again,
Will they meet me at the threshold,
And smile upon me then?

Those six and forty summers,
Like a dream have passed away,
And the day these trees were planted,
Now seems but yesterday.

Since then how many dear ones,
From earth's bright scenes have gone,
While I a little longer,
Am left to journey on.

How swift time's restless current,
That bears our lives away,
How soon fair brows are wrinkled
And auburn locks are gray.

'Tis a trite and hackneyed subject,
This rapid flight of time;
It is one that men have grieved about,
In every age and clime—

And I doubt not old Methuselah
Felt that nature did him wrong,
As he marked how fast the centuries
Were hurrying him along.

And there is a tradition
That at last he died of grief,
O'er his lack of opportunity
In a life so very brief.

As it is with money-getting,
So with life, 'till life is o'er;
Man seldom has so much of it,
But he wants a little more.

And those with locks all hoary,
Spite of life's pains and tears,
Would cling to earthly being,
I wis a thousand years.

And who would leave earth's gladness,
Its breath and light and bloom,
For the coldness and the darkness,
And the silence of the tomb?

For this world is full of beauty,
The raidient sky o'erhead,
The awe inspiring mountains,
The vales with verdure spread.

These homes of sweet affections,
Of gentle deeds of love;
The men of firm uprightness
That human virtue prove.

These things and countless others,
That charm life's onward way,
Make glad its opening morning,
And cheer its evening ray.

'Tis true its paths are toilsome,
At times exceeding rough;
But save its crimes and sorrows,
This world is good enough.

And He whose hand hath formed it,
Plain, mountain, sky and flood,
When the great work was finished
Pronounced his labor good.