Swiftly the present fades in memory’s glow,—­
      Our only sure possession is the past;
        The village blacksmith died a month ago,
      And dim to me the forge’s roaring blast; 235
        Soon fire-new medievals we shall see
        Oust the black smithy from its chestnut-tree,
    And that hewn down, perhaps, the bee-hive green and vast.

        How many times, prouder than king on throne,
      Loosed from the village school-dame’s A’s and B’s, 240
        Panting have I the creaky bellows blown,
      And watched the pent volcano’s red increase,
        Then paused to see the ponderous sledge, brought down
        By that hard arm voluminous and brown,
    From the white iron swarm its golden vanishing bees. 245

        Dear native town! whose choking elms each year
      With eddying dust before their time turn gray,
        Pining for rain,—­to me thy dust is dear;
      It glorifies the eve of summer day,
        And when the westering sun half sunken burns, 250
        The mote-thick air to deepest orange turns,
    The westward horseman rides through clouds of gold away.

        So palpable, I’ve seen those unshorn few,
      The six old willows at the causey’s end
        (Such trees Paul Potter never dreamed nor drew), 255
      Through this dry mist their checkering shadows send,
        Striped, here and there, with many a long-drawn thread,
        Where streamed through leafy chinks the trembling red,
    Past which, in one bright trail, the hang-bird’s flashes blend.

        Yes, dearer far thy dust than all that e’er, 260
      Beneath the awarded crown of victory,
        Gilded the blown Olympic charioteer;
      Though lightly prized the ribboned parchments three,
        Yet collegisse juvat, I am glad
        That here what colleging was mine I had,—­ 265
    It linked another tie, dear native town, with thee!

        Nearer art thou than simply native earth,
      My dust with thine concedes a deeper tie;
        A closer claim thy soil may well put forth,
      Something of kindred more than sympathy; 270
        For in thy bounds I reverently laid away
        That blinding anguish of forsaken clay,
    That title I seemed to have in earth and sea and sky.

        That portion of my life more choice to me
      (Though brief, yet in itself so round and whole) 275
        Than all the imperfect residue can be;—­
      The Artist saw his statue of the soul
        Was perfect; so, with one regretful stroke,
        The earthen model into fragments broke,
    And without her the impoverished seasons roll. 280

THE OAK