Through the mist of the valley damp and grey The sentinels hear the sound, and say, "That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith!" DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. IN broad daylight, and at noon, But at length the feverish day Then the moon, in all her pride, Filled and overflowed the night With revelations of her light. And the poet's song again Passed like music through my brain; Night interpreted to me All its grace and mystery. MY LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And the burden of that old song, "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips, And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the voice of that wayward song "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the bulwarks by the shore, The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, And the music of that old song And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the sea-fight far away, In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay, And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's woods; And the friendships old and the early loves And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the schoolboy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." There are things of which I may not speak; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town ; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And Deering's woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain 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, At the end, an open door; And the whirring of a wheel, Gleam the long threads in the sun; Two fair maidens in a swing, And a weary look of care. Then an old man in a tower, While the rope coils round and round, Like a serpent at his feet, And again, in swift retreat, Nearly lifts him from the ground. |