Classic Poem

He sits there at the fireside, where the mellow light is gleaming
O'er the columns of the little country paper that he holds,
And something he has read there seems to set his fancy dreaming,
While memory's panorama of forgotten days unfolds.
Its quaint and homely phrases all incline him to reflection;
Some sweetness of enchantment as he lays the paper down
Strips the bitter peel of sorrow from the fruit of recollection,
He tastes the mellow sweetness of the little country town.

He sees, at even, a cottage where the lamplight's dimly straying
Through the window, thickly bowered with the honeysuckle vine;
To his ears come strains of music — there's a sound of someone playing
On a little cottage organ and the notes of Auld Lang Syne.
He hears the tea things clatter, sees a woman's figure flitting
Here and there, belike some fairy, and the shimmer of her gown;
And longing leads his fancy to the place where he is sitting
Just across from her at table in the little country town.
What spell lies on its columns? There rise lusty tones and laughing,
A rioting of young folks through the open parlor door,
The place resounds with revelry and badinage and chaffing;
Someone has brought his fiddle from the little country store.
The merry songs from lad and lass in lusty tones are swelling,
The sparkling cider passes in the earthen jug and brown;
What silver-throated eloquence of memory is telling
The story of the glory of the little country town?

Yet he sits here alone, where all the dreamy shadows dancing,
And silent, save for voices that his memory may hear;
The eyes that o'er the columns of the little paper glancing,
Like violets, dew-misted, in the passing of a tear.
For some, as he, are missing from the circle once unbroken,
And one he knows lies sleeping where the autumn leaves are brown;
His hair is white, like silver, yet in fancy he has spoken
With all those lads and lasses of the little country town.

The misty eye of sorrow at the bush of dreams is seeking
The rose of recollection with the fragrance of its morn,
And in the ear of memory the voice of grief is speaking —
The hand that plucks the blossom knows the sharpness of the thorn.
His dreams die with the embers at the fireplace — ah, the pity!
The paper falls from listless hands and idly flutters down.
How lonely, lonely, lonely is the sullen, smoky city,
When the heart has come from straying in the little country town!