He walks aimlessly on.

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.