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I can see the breezy dome of groves,

The shadows of Deering's Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods.

And the verse of that sweet old song,

It flutters and murmurs still : “ A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long

thoughts."

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart

Across the schoolboy's brain ;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.

And the voice of that fitful song

Sings on, and is never still : “A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long

thoughts.”

There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart

weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill : “ A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long

thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well

known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still :

“ A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long

thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,

And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again.

And the strange and beautiful song,

The groves are repeating it still : “ A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long

thoughts."

THE ROPEWALK.

In that building, long and low,
With its windows all a-row,

Like the port holes of a hulk, Human spiders spin and spin, Backward down their threads so thin

Dropping, each a hempen bulk.

At the end, an open door;
Squares of sunshine on the floor

Light the long and dusky lane;
And the whirring of a wheel,
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel

All its spokes are in my brain.

As the spinners to the end
Downward

go

and reascend, Gleam the long threads in the sun; While within this brain of mine Cobwebs brighter and more fine

By the busy wheel are spun.

Two fair maidens in a swing,
Like white doves upon the wing,

First before my vision pass;
Laughing, as their gentle hands
Closely clasp the twisted strands,

At their shadow on the grass.

Then a booth of mountebanks,
With its smell of tan and planks,

And a girl poised high in air
On a cord, in spangled dress,
With a faded loveliness,

And a weary look of care.

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