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* * * * * KNOWS he who tills this lonely field, | |
| To reap its scanty corn, | |
| What mystic fruit his acres yield | |
| At midnight and at morn? | |
| |
| In the long sunny afternoon | 5 |
| The plain was full of ghosts; | |
| I wandered up, I wandered down, | |
| Beset by pensive hosts. | |
| |
| The winding Concord gleamed below, | |
| Pouring as wide a flood | 10 |
| As when my brothers, long ago, | |
| Came with me to the wood. | |
| |
| But they are gone,—the holy ones | |
| Who trod with me this lovely vale; | |
| The strong, star-bright companions | 15 |
| Are silent, low, and pale. | |
| |
| My good, my noble, in their prime, | |
| Who made this world the feast it was, | |
| Who learned with me the lore of time, | |
| Who loved this dwelling-place! | 20 |
| |
| They took this valley for their toy, | |
| They played with it in every mood; | |
| A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,— | |
| They treated nature as they would. | |
| |
| They colored the horizon round; | 25 |
| Stars flamed and faded as they bade; | |
| All echoes hearkened for their sound,— | |
| They made the woodlands glad or mad. | |
| |
| I touch this flower of silken leaf, | |
| Which once our childhood knew; | 30 |
| Its soft leaves wound me with a grief | |
| Whose balsam never grew. | |
| |
| Hearken to yon pine-warbler | |
| Singing aloft in the tree! | |
| Hearest thou, O traveller, | 35 |
| What he singeth to me? | |
| |
| Not unless God made sharp thine ear | |
| With sorrow such as mine, | |
| Out of that delicate lay couldst thou | |
| Its heavy tale divine. | 40 |
| |
| “Go, lonely man,” it saith; | |
| “They loved thee from their birth; | |
| Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,— | |
| There are no such hearts on earth. | |
| |
| “Ye drew one mother’s milk, | 45 |
| One chamber held ye all; | |
| A very tender history | |
| Did in your childhood fall. | |
| |
| “Ye cannot unlock your heart, | |
| The key is gone with them; | 50 |
| The silent organ loudest chants | |
| The master’s requiem.” | |
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