Classic Poem

Is yonder the place? Are you certain? Drive slowly;
In the landscape, or else in myself, what a change!
The barn seems too old and the farm-house too lowly;
And even the sky has a look that is strange!

Of a shadowy glory of oaks, maples, beeches,
With their birds and their blossoms, the prospect is shorn;
In their stead are the sultry and glimmering reaches
Of fallow, or fields of tobacco and corn.

As we drove by the school-house, I couldn't help wonder
What ailed the surroundings, familiar of yore:
I was missing the grand tree we used to play under;—
Who dared to chop down that sublime sycamore?

Do you see, there, that green patch of calamus growing
Where the spring bubbles up through the loam at its brink?
Stop here, on the roadside, a minute.—I'm going
To make me a leaf-cup and scoop up a drink!

—Go ahead;—that was cool,—or at least it was coolish,
But didn't taste quite as it ought to, in truth;
Just look at my shoes! Yes, it always is foolish
For Age to go seeking the fountain of Youth!

But the mud will rub off, and such folly find pardon.
We have come to the big gate;—turn into the lane;
On our right, sure enough! is the old-fashioned garden
Where mother and I— (That tree-toad means rain!)

Balm, marjoram, basil, all herbs of sweet savor
We planted, —and May-pinks, and hyacinths blue,
With simples of bitterly curative flavor,
Sage, camomile, tansy, and wormwood, and rue.

I'll step to the house. —Driver, you're a good fellow;
Your horse is a beauty, —your rig, in fine style:
Hitch there by the corn-crib. —Those rambos are mellow;
Loaf round in the orchard and wait there a while.

—I feel like an alien, lost, heartsick, and lonely,
As I gaze on the homestead in which I was bred;
I know not who dwell here; I conjure up only
Dear phantoms of loved ones, or living or dead.

Ah me! there's the little east window that lightened
The low-raftered bedroom I fondly called mine,
From which I looked out on the morning world brightened
By radiance borrowed from visions divine!

The porch still allures with its jessamine curtain,
The path to the threshold entices my feet,
And yet, at the gateway I linger uncertain,
Reluctant alike to advance or retreat.

O why should I knock at the door of the stranger?
Or hope to recover youth's forfeited joy?
In the rashness of age why should I endanger
The happy illusions which keep me a boy?

Is it wisdom to listen the voices of greeting,
Though cheerful, which therefore must sadden my ear?
When the welcoming words of the host are but cheating
The unbidden guest of a solacing tear?

Nay, let me return from a pilgrimage lonely;—
I'll touch not a flower, I'll pluck not a leaf,—
'Tis well to forget, when remembrance serves only
To reckon our losses and deepen our grief.

—Well, how were the rambos?— This way with the surrey:
I'm ready.—Now back to the station in less
Than a twinkling;—drive faster!—I'm in a big hurry
To make that last down train—the Lightning Express.