“Do you still remember the winding street
In the grey old village?” He seemed to say;
“And the long school days that the sun made sweet
And the thought of the flowers from far away?
And the faces of friends whom you used to meet
In that village day by day,
—Ay, the face of this one or of that?” he said,
And the names he named were names of the dead
Who all in the churchyard lay.
“Do you still remember your brother’s face,
And his soft light hair, and his eyes’ deep blue,
And the child’s pet name that in every place
Was once so familiar to him and to you?
And the innocent sports and the butterfly chase
That lasted the bright day through?”
—O this time, I thought of the churchyard and sighed,
For I thought of the dead lying side by side,
And my brother who lay there too.
“And do you remember the far green hills;
Or the long straight path by the side of the stream;
Or the road that led to the farm and the mills,
And the fields where you oft used to wander or dream
Or follow each change of your childish wills
Like the dance of some gay sunbeam?”—
Then, alas, from right weeping I could not refrain,
For indeed all those things I remembered again,—
As of yesterday they did seem.
And I thought of a day in a far lost Spring,
When the sun with a kiss set the wild flowers free;
When my heart felt the kiss and the shadowy wing
Of some beautiful spirit of things to be,
Who breathed in the song that the wild birds sing
Some deep tender meaning for me,—
Who undid a strange spell in the world as it were,
Who set wide sweet whispers abroad in the air,—
Made a presence I could not see.
O that whisper my heart seemed to understand!
O that spell it took hold on right willing feet!
To that beautiful spirit I gave my hand,
And he led me that day up the village street,
And out through the fields and the fragrant land,
And on through the pathways sweet;
Yea, still on, with a semblance of some new bliss,
Through the world he has led me from that day to this
With a tender and fair deceit.
“O for what have you wandered so far—so long?”
Said the voice that was e’en as my voice of old:
“O for what have you done to the Past such wrong?
Was there no fair dream on your own threshold?
In your childhood’s home was there no fresh song?
—Was your heart then all so cold?
Why, at length, are you weary and lone and sad,
But for casting away all the good that you had
With the peace that was yours of old?
“Have you wholly forgotten the words you said,
When you stood by a certain mound of earth,
When you vowed with your heart that that place you made
The last burial place for your love and your mirth,
For the pure past blisses you therein laid
Were surely your whole life’s worth?—
O, the angels who deck the lone graves with their tears
Have cared for this, morning and evening, for years,
But of yours there has been long dearth:
“In the pure pale sheen of a hallowed night,
When the graves are looking their holiest,
You may see it more glistering and more bright
And holier-looking than all the rest;
You may see that the dews and the stars’ strange light
Are loving that grave the best;
But, perhaps, if you went in the clear noon-day,
After so many years you might scarce find the way
Ere you tired indeed of the quest:
“For the path that leads to it is almost lost;
And quite tall grass-flowers of sickly blue
Have grown up there and gathered for years, and tost
Bitter germs all around them to grow up too;
For indeed all these years not a man has crost
That pathway—not even You!”—
But alas! for these words to my heart he sent,
For I knew it was Marguérite’s grave that he meant,
And I felt that the words were true.
Then the dim sweet faces of them of yore
Seemed to start from the mist where the memory lies;
And each one was as sweet and as dear as before;
But a piteous look was in all their eyes—
Yea, the long smile of sadness; and each one bore
A reproach in some tender wise:
Till my bosom was troubled and sorely thrilled
With the thought of them all, and my ears were filled
With a sound of the mingling of sighs.