Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems Part 19

And so we grew to greatly blame This wary Mr. What's-his-name, And look on him with such distrust His actions seemed to sanction just.

But when he died--he died one day-- Dropped in the street while on his way To that old wretched hut of his-- You'll think it strange--perhaps it is--

But when we lifted him, and past The threshold of his home at last, No man of all the crowd but stepped With reverence,--Aye, _quailed_ and _wept_!

What was it? Just a shriek of pain I pray to never hear again-- A withered woman, old and bowed, That fell and crawled and cried aloud--

And kissed the dead man's matted hair-- Lifted his face and kissed him there-- Called to him, as she clutched his hand, In words no one could understand.

Insane? Yes.--Well, we, searching, found An unsigned letter, in a round Free hand, within the dead man's breast: "Look to my mother--_I'm_ at rest.

You'll find my money safely hid Under the lining of the lid Of my work-basket. It is hers, And G.o.d will bless her ministers!"

And some day--though he died unknown-- If through the City by the Throne I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame, I'll ask for Mr. What's-his-name.

WHEN AGE COMES ON.

When Age comes on!-- "The deepening dusk is where the dawn Once glittered splendid, and the dew In honey-drips, from red rose-lips Was kissed away by me and you.-- And now across the frosty lawn Black foot-prints trail, and Age comes on-- And Age comes on!

And biting wild-winds whistle through Our tattered hopes--and Age comes on!

When Age comes on!-- O tide of raptures, long withdrawn, Flow back in summer-floods, and fling Here at our feet our childhood sweet, And all the songs we used to sing! . . .

Old loves, old friends--all dead and gone-- Our old faith lost--and Age comes on-- And Age comes on!

Poor hearts! have we not anything But longings left when Age comes on?

ENVOY.

Just as of old! The world rolls on and on; The day dies into night--night into dawn-- Dawn into dusk--through centuries untold.-- Just as of old.

Time loiters not. The river ever flows, Its brink or white with blossoms or with snows; Its tide or warm with Spring or Winter cold: Just as of old.

Lo! where is the beginning, where the end Of living, loving, longing? Listen, friend!-- G.o.d answers with a silence of pure gold-- Just as of old.