He walks aimlessly on.

Beyond those twisted apple-trees,

That partly hide the old brick-barn,

Its tattered arms and tattered knees

A scare-crow tosses to the breeze

Among the shocks of corn.

My heart is gray as is the day,

In which the rain-wind drearily

Makes all the sounding branches sway,

And in the hollows far away

The dry leaves rustle wearily.

And soon we'll hear the far wild-geese

Honk in frost-bitten heavens under

Arcturus; when my walks must cease,

And by the fireside's log-heaped peace

I'll sit and nod and ponder.—

When every fall of this loud creek

Is architectured ice; and hinted

Brown acres of yon corn stretch bleak,

White-sculptured with the snows, that streak

The hillsides bitter-tinted,

I'll sit and dream of that glad morn

We went down ways where blooms were blowing;

That dusk we strolled through flower and thorn,

By tasseled meads of cane and corn,

To where the stream was flowing.

Again I'll oar our boat among

The lily-pads that dot the river;

And reach her hat the grape-vine long

Strikes in the stream; we'll sing that song,

And then.... I'll wake and shiver.

Why is it that my mind reverts

To that sweet past? while full of parting

The present is; so full of hurts

And heartache, that what it asserts

Adds only to the smarting.

How often shall I sit and think

Of that sweet past! through lowered lashes

What-might-have-been trace link by link;

Then watch it gradually sink

And crumble into ashes.

Outside I'll hear the sad wind weep

Like some lone spirit, grieved, forsaken;

Then shuddering to bed shall creep

And lie awake, or haply sleep

A sleep by visions shaken.

Dreams of the past that paint and draw

The present in a hue that's wanting;

A scare-crow thing of sticks and straw,—

Like that just now I, passing, saw,—

Its empty tatters flaunting.