« ПредишнаНапред »
Then a homestead among farms,
As at some magician's spell.
Then an old man in a tower,
Nearly lifts him from the ground.
Then within a prison-yard,
Blow, and sweep it from the earth!
Then a school-boy, with his kite
And an angler by a brook.
Ships rejoicing in the breeze,
Sailors feeling for the land.
All these scenes do I behold,
And the spinners backward go.
THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE.
LEAFLEss are the trees; their purple branches
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, Rising silent
In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset.
From the hundred chimneys of the village,
Tower aloft into the air of amber.
At the window winks the flickering fire-light; Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, Social watch-fires
Answering one another through the darkness.
On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing,
Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.
By the fireside there are old men seated,
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.
By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,
Building castles fair, with stately stairways,
Of the Future what it cannot give them.
By the fireside tragedies are acted
In whose scenes appear two actors only,
And above them God the sole spectator.
By the fireside there are peace and comfort, Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, Waiting, watching
For a well-known footstep in the passage.
Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-stone; Is the central point, from which he measures Every distance
Through the gateways of the world around him.
In his farthest wanderings still he sees it;
When he sat with those who were, but are not.