Classic Poem

Let us sit here on the porch, my son.
Soon the night will come up the valley
Lighting her candles one by one,
Hiding the mill and the lumber alley.
Soon the night will come slowly stealing
Over the housetops and the street;
Soon the night will come gently healing
All of the hurt of the Summer's heat.

You are weary, my boy, to-night,
And I know it is not the working.
In your heart that was always light
There is another sadness lurking.
Toil may weary the limbs that bear you,
Toil may weary the arm that's strong;
But there are other wears that wear you —
And I have watched you, son, and long.

Something you wished for, and you lost,
Something, sonny, your life and glory;
Nothing now but the cruel cost —
No, you never need tell the story.
But my hand, boy, is on your shoulder,
Not your father — your elder chum;
You are but younger, I but older —
And on the man's road both have come.

Son, you weep for your heart's desire;
Grief has folded her mantle o'er you.
Now where the son stands stood the sire
Maybe, my boy, long years before you.
For the lives that are all around us
Run like rivers, as still and deep.
Many see us, but none may sound us;
Each has his secret thought to keep.

Only the surface we behold —
If a shadow, a shadow fleeting.
Never the story may men unfold
Far too sacred to bear repeating.
Vexed perhaps at a little bother,
Glad perhaps at a little joy —
This the man that you thought your father:
Maybe you did not know him, boy.

Let us sit here on the porch, my son.
Soon the night will come up the valley
Lighting her candles one by one,
Hiding the mill and the lumber alley.
And my hand, boy, is on your shoulder,
Not your father — your elder chum;
You are but younger, I but older —
And on the man's road both have come.