The Dream Of All The Springfield Writers

I’ll haunt this town, though gone the maids and men, The darling few, my friends and loves today. My ghost returns, bearing a great sword-pen When far off children of their children play.

That pen will drip with moonlight and with fire. I’ll write upon the church-doors and the walls. And reading there, young hearts shall leap the higher Though drunk already with their own love-calls.

Still led of love and arm in arm, strange gold Shall find in tracing the far-speeding track The dauntless war-cries that my sword-pen bold Shall carve on terraces and tree-trunks black--

On tree-trunks black beneath the blossoms white:-- Just as the phosphorent merman, bound for home Jewels his fire-path in the tides at night While hurrying sea-babes follow through the foam.

And in December when the leaves are dead And the first snow has carpeted the street While young cheeks flush a healthful Christmas red And young eyes glisten with youth’s fervor sweet--

My pen shall cut in winter’s snowy floor Cries that in channelled glory leap and shine, My Village Gospel, living evermore Amid rejoicing, loyal friends of mine.