Beyond those twisted apple-trees, That partly hide the old brick-barn, Its tattered arms and tattered knees A scare-crow tosses to the breeze
Among the shocks of corn. My heart is gray as is the day, In which the rain-wind drearily Makes all the sounding branches sway,
And in the hollows far away The dry leaves rustle wearily. And soon we'll hear the far wild-geese Honk in frost-bitten heavens under
Arcturus; when my walks must cease, And by the fireside's log-heaped peace I'll sit and nod and ponder.— When every fall of this loud creek
Is architectured ice; and hinted Brown acres of yon corn stretch bleak, White-sculptured with the snows, that streak The hillsides bitter-tinted,
I'll sit and dream of that glad morn We went down ways where blooms were blowing; That dusk we strolled through flower and thorn, By tasseled meads of cane and corn,
To where the stream was flowing. Again I'll oar our boat among The lily-pads that dot the river; And reach her hat the grape-vine long
Strikes in the stream; we'll sing that song, And then.... I'll wake and shiver. Why is it that my mind reverts To that sweet past? while full of parting
The present is; so full of hurts And heartache, that what it asserts Adds only to the smarting. How often shall I sit and think
Of that sweet past! through lowered lashes What-might-have-been trace link by link; Then watch it gradually sink And crumble into ashes.
Outside I'll hear the sad wind weep Like some lone spirit, grieved, forsaken; Then shuddering to bed shall creep And lie awake, or haply sleep
A sleep by visions shaken. Dreams of the past that paint and draw The present in a hue that's wanting; A scare-crow thing of sticks and straw,—
Like that just now I, passing, saw,— Its empty tatters flaunting.
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