And of the town I found no trace;
    A shepherd blew on a reed instead;
  His herd was grazing on the place. 
    “How long,” I asked, “is the city dead?”
  He answered, blowing as before
  “The new crop grows the old one o’er,
  This was my pasture evermore!”
    Five hundred years from yonder day
    I passed again the selfsame way.

  A sea I found, the tide was full,
    A sailor emptied nets with cheer;
  And when he rested from his pull,
    I asked how long that sea was here. 
  Then laughed he with a hearty roar
  “As long as waves have washed this shore
  They fished here ever in days of yore.” 
    Five hundred years from yonder day
    I passed again the selfsame way.

  I found a forest settlement,
    And o’er his axe, a tree to fell,
  I saw a man in labor bent. 
    How old this wood I bade him tell. 
  “’Tis everlasting, long before
  I lived it stood in days of yore,”
  He quoth; “and shall grow evermore.” 
    Five hundred years from yonder day
    I passed again the selfsame way.

  I saw a town; the market-square
    Was swarming with a noisy throng. 
  “How long,” I asked, “has this town been there? 
    Where are wood and sea and shepherd’s song?”
  They cried, nor heard among the roar
  “This town was ever so before,
  And so will live forevermore!”
    “Five hundred years from yonder day
    I want to pass the selfsame way.”

* * * * *

  AT FORTY YEARS[58] (1832)

  When for forty years we’ve climbed the rugged mountain,
    We stop and backward gaze;
  Yonder still we see our childhood’s peaceful fountain,
    And youth exulting strays.

  One more glance behind, and then, new strength acquiring,
    Staff grasped, no longer stay;
  See, a further slope, a long one, still aspiring
    Ere downward turns the way!

  Take a brave long breath and toward the summit hie thee—­
    The goal shall draw thee on;
  When thou think’st it least, the destined end is nigh thee—­
    Sudden, the journey’s done!

* * * * *

  BEFORE THE DOORS[59]

  I went to knock at Riches’ door;
  They threw me a farthing the threshold o’er.

  To the door of Love did I then repair—­
  But fifteen others already were there.

  To Honor’s castle I took my flight—­
  They opened to none but to belted knight.

  The house of Labor I sought to win—­
  But I heard a wailing sound within.

  To the house of Content I sought the way—­
  But none could tell me where it lay.

  One quiet house I yet could name,
  Where last of all, I’ll admittance claim;

  Many the guests that have knocked before,
  But still—­in the grave—­there’s room for more.