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THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE.
LEAFLESS are the trees; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral,
In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset.
From the hundred chimneys of the village,
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,
For its freedom
By the fireside there are old men seated,
By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,
By the fireside tragedies are acted
Wife and husband,
By the fireside there are peace and comfort,
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; Hears the talking flame, the answering night
As he heard them When he sat with those who were, but are not.
Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Nor the march of the encroaching city,
Drives an exile
From the hearth of his ancestral homestead.
may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculp
But we cannot