Iii

Years of care can not efface Visions of the hills and trees Closing in its dam and race; Nor the mile-long memories Of the mill-stream’s lovely place.

How the sunsets used to stain Mirrors of the waters lying Under eaves made dark with rain! Where the red-bird, westward flying, Lit to try its song again.

Dingles, hills and woods, and springs, Where we came in calm and storm, Swinging in the grapevine swings, Wading where the rocks were warm, With our fishing-nets and strings.

Here the road plunged down the hill, Under ash and chinquapin,-- Where the grasshoppers would drill Ears of silence with their din,-- To the willow-girdled mill.

There the path beyond the ford Takes the woodside; just below Shallows that the lilies sword, Where the scarlet blossoms blow Of the trumpet-vine and gourd.

Summer winds, that sink with heat, On the pelted waters winnow Moony petals that repeat Crescents, where the startled minnow Beats a glittering retreat.

Summer winds that bear the scent Of the ironweed and mint, Weary with sweet freight and spent, On the deeper pools imprint Stumbling steps, whose ripples dent.

Summer winds, that split the husk Of the peach and nectarine, Trail along the amber dusk Hazy skirts of gold and green, Spilling balms of dew and musk.

Where with balls of bursting juice Summer sees the red wild-plum Strew the gravel; ripened loose, Autumn hears the pawpaw drum Plumpness on the rocks that bruise:

There we found the water-beech, One forgotten August noon, With a hornet-nest in reach,-- Like a fairyland balloon, Full of bustling fairy speech.

Some invasion, sure, it was; For we heard the captains scold; Waspish cavalry a-buzz,-- Troopers uniformed in gold, Sable-slashed,--to charge on us.

Could I find the sedgy angle, Where the dragon-flies would turn Slender flittings into spangle On the sunlight? or would burn-- Where the berries made a tangle--

Sparkling green and brassy blue; Rendezvousing, by the stream, Bands of elf-banditti, who, Brigands of the bloom and beam, Drunken were with honey-dew.

Could I find the pond that lay Where vermilion blossoms showered Fragrance down the daisied way? That the sassafras embowered With the spice of early May?

Could I find it--should I seek-- The old mill? Its weather-beaten Wheel and gable by the creek? With its warping roof; worm-eaten, Dusty rafters worn and weak.

Where old shadows haunt old places, Loft and hopper, stair and bin; Ghostly with the dust that laces Webs that usher phantoms in, Wistful with remembered faces.

While the frogs’ grave litanies Drowse in far-off antiphone, Supplicating, till the eyes Of dead friendships, long alone In the dusky corners,--rise.

Moonbeams? or the twinkling tip Of a star? or, in the darkling Twilight, fireflies? there that dip-- As if Night a myriad sparkling Jewels from her hands let slip.

Where, I dream, my youth still crosses, With a corn-sack for the meal, Through the sprinkled ferns and mosses, To the gray mill’s lichened wheel, Where the water drips and tosses.