 | Thought and word |  |
64
HIS TOWN.
His Town is one of memory's haunts,—
Shut in by fields of corn and flax,
Like housings gay on elephants
Heaved on the huge hill-backs.
Shut in by fields of corn and flax,
Like housings gay on elephants
Heaved on the huge hill-backs.
How pleasantly that image came!
As down the zigzag road I press'd,
Blithe, but unable yet to claim
His roof from all the rest.
As down the zigzag road I press'd,
Blithe, but unable yet to claim
His roof from all the rest.
And I should see my Friend at home,
Be in the little town at last
Those welcome letters dated from,
Gladdening the two years past.
Be in the little town at last
Those welcome letters dated from,
Gladdening the two years past.
I recollect the summer-light,
The bridge with poplars at its end,
The slow brook turning left and right,
The greeting of my Friend.
The bridge with poplars at its end,
The slow brook turning left and right,
The greeting of my Friend.
I found him; he was mine,—his books,
His home, his day, his favourite walk,
The joy of swift-conceiving looks,
The glow of living talk.
His home, his day, his favourite walk,
The joy of swift-conceiving looks,
The glow of living talk.
July, no doubt, comes brightly still
On blue-eyed flax and yellowing wheat;
But sorrow shadows vale and hill
Since one heart ceased to beat.
On blue-eyed flax and yellowing wheat;
But sorrow shadows vale and hill
Since one heart ceased to beat.
65
Is not the climate colder there,
Since that Youth died?—it must be so;
A dumb regret is in the air;
The brook repines to flow.
Since that Youth died?—it must be so;
A dumb regret is in the air;
The brook repines to flow.
Wing'd thither, fancy only sees
An old church on its rising ground,
And underneath two sycamore trees
A little grassy mound.
An old church on its rising ground,
And underneath two sycamore trees
A little grassy mound.
| Thought and word | |