Iv

The seventh noon ’s a memory, And autumn ’s closing in; The quince is fragrant on the bough, And barley chokes the bin. “O Boston, Boston, Boston! And O my kith and kin!”

The snow climbs o’er the pasture wall, It crackles ’neath the moon; And now the rustic sows the seed, Damp in his heavy shoon; And now the building jays are loud In canopies of June.

For season after season The three are whirled along, Misled by every instinct Of light, or scent, or song; Yea, put them on the surest trail, The trail is in the wrong.

Upon those wheels in any path The rain will follow loud, And he who meets that ghostly man Will meet a thunder-cloud, And whosoever speaks with him May next bespeak his shroud.

Tho’ nigh two hundred years have gone, Doth Peter Rugg the more A gentle answer and a true Of living lips implore: “Oh, show me to my own town, And to my open door!”