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“ A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long
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
THE ROPE WALK.
In that building, long and low,
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 ;
Light the long and dusky lane;
All its spokes are in my brain.
As the spinners to the end
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,
First before my vision pass;
At their shadow on the grass.
Then a booth of mountebanks,
And a girl poised high in air
look of care.
And a weary
Then a homestead among farms,
And a woman with bare arms
Drawing water from a well;
As at some magician's spell.
Then an old man in a tower,
While the rope coils round and round
Nearly lifts him from the ground.
Then within a prison-yard,
Laughter and indecent mirth;
Blow, and sweep it from the earth!
Then a school-boy, with his kite
And an eager, upward look;
And an angler by a brook.
Ships rejoicing in the breeze,
Anchors dragged through faithless sand;
Sailors feeling for the land.
All these scenes do I behold,
In that building long and low;
And the spinners backward go.