And down to the swing in the locust tree,
  Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground
And where “Eck” Skinner, “Old” Carr, and three
Or four such other boys used to be
  Doin’ “sky-scrapers,” or “whirlin’ round:” 
And again Bob climbed for the bluebird’s nest,
  And again “had shows” in the buggy-shed
Of Guymon’s barn, where still, unguessed,
  The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!

And again I gazed from the old school-room
  With a wistful look of a long June day,
When on my cheek was the hectic bloom
Caught of Mischief, as I presume—­
  He had such a “partial” way,
It seemed, toward me.—­And again I thought
  Of a probable likelihood to be
Kept in after school—­for a girl was caught
  Catching a note from me.

[Illustration]

And down through the woods to the swimming-hole—­
  Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows,—­
And we never cared when the water was cold. 
And always “clucked” the boy that told
  On the fellow that tied the clothes.—­
When life went so like a dreamy rhyme
  That it seems to me now that then
The world was having a jollier time
  Than it ever will have again.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

AT SEA

O we go down to sea in ships—­
  But Hope remains behind,
And Love, with laughter on his lips,
  And Peace, of passive mind;
While out across the deeps of night,
  With lifted sails of prayer,
We voyage off in quest of light,
  Nor find it anywhere.

O Thou who wroughtest earth and sea,
  Yet keepest from our eyes
The shores of an eternity
  In calms of Paradise,
Blow back upon our foolish quest
  With all the driving rain
Of blinding tears and wild unrest,
  And waft us home again.

[Illustration]

THE OLD GUITAR

Neglected now is the old guitar
  And moldering into decay;
Fretted with many a rift and scar
  That the dull dust hides away,
While the spider spins a silver star
  In its silent lips to-day.

The keys hold only nerveless strings—­
  The sinews of brave old airs
Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings
  So closely here declares
A sad regret in its ravelings
  And the faded hue it wears.

But the old guitar, with a lenient grace,
  Has cherished a smile for me;
And its features hint of a fairer face
  That comes with a memory
Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place
  And a moonlit balcony.

Music sweeter than words confess
  Or the minstrel’s powers invent,
Thrilled here once at the light caress
  Of the fairy hands that lent
This excuse for the kiss I press
  On the dear old instrument.

The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem
  Still blooms; and the tiny sets
In the circle all are here; the gem
  In the keys, and the silver frets;
But the dainty fingers that danced o’er them—­
  Alas for the heart’s regrets!—­