And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, were, I find my lost youth again. 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, 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; 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, Like white doves upon the wing, First before my vision pass; Laughing, as their gentle hands Closely clasp the twisted strands, At their shadow on the grass. Then a booth of mountebanks, With its smell of tan and planks, And a girl poised high in air On a cord, in spangled dress, With a faded loveliness, And a weary look of care. Then a homestead among farms, And a woman with bare arms Drawing water from a well; As the bucket mounts apace, With it mounts her own fair face, As at some magician's spell. Then an old man in a tower, 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, Sea-fog drifting overhead, All these scenes do I behold, In that building long and low; While the wheel goes round and round, With a drowsy, dreamy sound, And the spinners backward go. THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. LEAFLESS are the trees; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, Ring silent In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. From the hundred chimneys of the vil lage, Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, Tower aloft into the air of amber. At the window winks the flickering firelight; Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, Social watch-fires Answering one another through the darkness. Every distance CATAWBA WINE. THIS song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, From warm Carolinian valleys, Nor the Isabel And the Muscadel That bask in our garden alleys. Nor the red Mustang, Of whose purple blood For richest and best Is the wine of the West, And as hollow trees Through the gateways of the world With a swarming and buzzing and hum around him. As he heard them ming. But Catawba wine Has a taste more divine, When he sat with those who were, but More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. are not. And there we hunted the walrus, The narwhale, and the seal; Ha! 't was a noble game! "To the northward stretched the desert, And like the lightning's flame How far I fain would know ; So at last I sallied forth, "To the west of me was the ocean, Till after three days more. "The days grew longer and longer, Of the red midnight sun. "And then uprose before me, "The sea was rough and storiny, The tempest howled and wailed, And the sea-fog, like a ghost, Haunted that dreary coast, But onward still I sailed. "Four days I steered to eastward, Four days without a night : Flew our harpoons of steel. "There were six of us all together, Norsemen of Helgoland; In two days and no more And dragged them to the strand !" Here Alfred the Truth-Teller And Othere the old sea-captain Stared at him wild and weird, Then smiled, till his shining teeth Gleamed white from underneath His tawny, quivering beard. And to the King of the Saxons, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, "Behold this walrus-tooth !" DAYBREAK. A WIND came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me." |