The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 94

SOMETIMES

Across the fields of yesterday He sometimes comes to me, A little lad just back from play-- The lad I used to be.

And yet he smiles so wistfully Once he has crept within, I wonder if he hopes to see The man I might have been.

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]

THE LITTLE GHOSTS

Where are they gone, and do you know If they come back at fall o' dew, The little ghosts of long ago, That long ago were you?

And all the songs that ne'er were sung.

And all the dreams that ne'er came true, Like little children dying young-- Do they come back to you?

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]

MY OTHER ME

Children, do you ever, In walks by land or sea, Meet a little maiden Long time lost to me?

She is gay and gladsome, Has a laughing face, And a heart as sunny; And her name is Grace.

Naught she knows of sorrow, Naught of doubt or blight; Heaven is just above her-- All her thoughts are white.

Long time since I lost her, That other Me of mine; She crossed, into Time's shadow Out of Youth's suns.h.i.+ne.

Now the darkness keeps her; And, call her as I will, The years that lie between us Hide her from me still.

I am dull and pain-worn, And lonely as can be-- Oh, children, if you meet her, Send back my other Me!

Grace Denio Litchfield [1849-

A SHADOW BOAT

Under my keel another boat Sails as I sail, floats as I float; Silent and dim and mystic still, It steals through that weird nether-world, Mocking my power, though at my will The foam before its prow is curled, Or calm it lies, with canvas furled.

Vainly I peer, and fain would see What phantom in that boat may be; Yet half I dread, lest I with ruth Some ghost of my dead past divine, Some gracious shape of my lost youth, Whose deathless eyes once fixed on mine Would draw me downward through the brine!

Arlo Bates [1850-1918]

A LAD THAT IS GONE

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I?

Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.

Mull was astern, Rum on the port, Eigg on the starboard bow; Glory of youth glowed in his soul: Where is that glory now?

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I?

Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.

Give me again all that was there, Give me the sun that shone!

Give me the eyes, give me the soul, Give me the lad that's gone!

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I?

Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.

Billow and breeze, islands and seas, Mountains of rain and sun, All that was good, all that was fair, All that was me is gone.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

CARCa.s.sONNE

"I'm growing old, I've sixty years; I've labored all my life in vain.

In all that time of hopes and fears, I've failed my dearest wish to gain.

I see full well that here below Bliss unalloyed there is for none; My prayer would else fulfilment know-- Never have I seen Carca.s.sonne!

"You see the city from the hill, It lies beyond the mountains blue; And yet to reach it one must still Five long and weary leagues pursue, And, to return, as many more.

Had but the vintage plenteous grown-- But, ah! the grape withheld its store.

I shall not look on Carca.s.sonne!

"They tell me every day is there Not more or less than Sunday gay; In s.h.i.+ning robes and garments fair The people walk upon their way.

One gazes there on castle walls As grand as those of Babylon, A bishop and two generals!

What joy to dwell in Carca.s.sonne!

"The vicar's right: he says that we Are ever wayward, weak, and blind; He tells us in his homily Ambition ruins all mankind; Yet could I there two days have spent, While still the autumn sweetly shone, Ah, me! I might have died content When I had looked on Carca.s.sonne.

"Thy pardon, Father, I beseech, In this my prayer if I offend; One something sees beyond his reach From childhood to his journey's end.

My wife, our little boy, Aignan, Have travelled even to Narbonne; My grandchild has seen Perpignan; And I--have not seen Carca.s.sonne!"

So crooned, one day, close by Limoux, A peasant, double-bent with age.

"Rise up, my friend," said I; "with you I'll go upon this pilgrimage."

We left, next morning, his abode, But (Heaven forgive him!) half-way on The old man died upon the road.

He never gazed on Carca.s.sonne.