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AFTER LONG YEARS.
The wind sweeping on with a desolate sound Moans over the bright-colored leaves.The old happy time rushes over me now, In surges of passionate pain;The voice of the past, like a wail o'er the dead, Trembles up in a tender refrain.
Again I am standing—a bright, happy child— Just under the vines at the gate,Kissing father "good-bye,"—there, under that tree, Is where his white horse used to wait,—His spirited pony who answered our call, And shook his proud head in the air,Impatiently pawing the earth where he stood, Well knowing his master was there.
The old tree is standing, still strong in its pride, Its boughs spreading broadly and low;No longer in waiting, the snowy white steed Slipped the halter of life years ago,My tears glitter bright on the half-broken rail As over the low gate I lean;The days of my childhood seem gleaming afar, With death shadows falling between.
