Poems (Brown)/An Old Man's Reverie
AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE.
"I am old to-day," sighed a weary man,
Whose race had nearly run;
"I am old to-day-past seventy-three:
My life is almost done.
I call to mind my boyhood days,
When I wandered by the stream,
And sprang with footsteps light and fleet,
To greet the morn's first beam.
Whose race had nearly run;
"I am old to-day-past seventy-three:
My life is almost done.
I call to mind my boyhood days,
When I wandered by the stream,
And sprang with footsteps light and fleet,
To greet the morn's first beam.
"I think, too, of my childhood days,
The merry games we played,
How we angled in the meadow brook.
Close by the willow's shade;
I remember, too, a gentle child
A playmate, kind and true;
I seem again to see her form,
And her dancing eyes of blue.
The merry games we played,
How we angled in the meadow brook.
Close by the willow's shade;
I remember, too, a gentle child
A playmate, kind and true;
I seem again to see her form,
And her dancing eyes of blue.
"But that gay and happy one
Is lying 'neath the sod;
Her spirit early plumed its flight.
To find its rest with God.
But this life is all transition,
And I've left my childish play,
And my hair is streaked with silver,
For I'm old! I'm old to-day."
Is lying 'neath the sod;
Her spirit early plumed its flight.
To find its rest with God.
But this life is all transition,
And I've left my childish play,
And my hair is streaked with silver,
For I'm old! I'm old to-day."
Thus the old man murmured softly,
In a voice both low and deep,
And listening to the moaning willows,
He gently, calmly, fell asleep.
And once more he was a child,
Like the happy one of yore,
Still dancing on the village green,
Where oft he'd danced before.
In a voice both low and deep,
And listening to the moaning willows,
He gently, calmly, fell asleep.
And once more he was a child,
Like the happy one of yore,
Still dancing on the village green,
Where oft he'd danced before.
His playmates' shouts rang sharp and clear,
But his the loudest seemed;
They roamed again the meadow brook,
Near where the sunlight gleamed.
A form seemed walking close beside,
A voice spoke low and sweet,
And holding still a little hand,
Came the pattering little feet.
But his the loudest seemed;
They roamed again the meadow brook,
Near where the sunlight gleamed.
A form seemed walking close beside,
A voice spoke low and sweet,
And holding still a little hand,
Came the pattering little feet.
Full well he knew that darling child,
That face so wondrous fair;
And once again he gathered flowers,
And twined them in her hair;
Once more he chased life's cares away,
And laughed in childish glee;
Once more the evening prayer was lisped
Beside a mother's knee.
That face so wondrous fair;
And once again he gathered flowers,
And twined them in her hair;
Once more he chased life's cares away,
And laughed in childish glee;
Once more the evening prayer was lisped
Beside a mother's knee.
But now the happy scene has changed,
Gray shadows are stealing o'er,
And the little form has vanished—
Her smiles will beam no more.
With listless step he wanders forth
To a little grave so dear,
And as he kneels down gently by it,
Wipes away the blinding tear.
Gray shadows are stealing o'er,
And the little form has vanished—
Her smiles will beam no more.
With listless step he wanders forth
To a little grave so dear,
And as he kneels down gently by it,
Wipes away the blinding tear.
He sees his parents fade away,
Their places vacant by the hearth;
His sisters, brothers, all are gone—
Hushed the songs of joy and mirth.
The sunlight glimmers through the trees,
And falls across the floor,
And breath of early spring-flowers
Wafts through the open door.
Their places vacant by the hearth;
His sisters, brothers, all are gone—
Hushed the songs of joy and mirth.
The sunlight glimmers through the trees,
And falls across the floor,
And breath of early spring-flowers
Wafts through the open door.
The old man starts—awakes—and lo,
Behold, 'tis all a dream!
And the sun is softly shining on,
With gladsome, happy beam.
The aged hand is lifted up,
The breezes softly play,
And he whispers now in solemn tones,
"I'm old; I'm old to-day."
Behold, 'tis all a dream!
And the sun is softly shining on,
With gladsome, happy beam.
The aged hand is lifted up,
The breezes softly play,
And he whispers now in solemn tones,
"I'm old; I'm old to-day."