Poems (Chitwood)/To a Favorite Stream
TO A FAVORITE STREAM.
Stream, flowing through my childhood's haunts, art thou Still the same laughing-hearted, joyous thingAs when I cast fresh roses on thy brow, In the blue morn of life's delicious spring?I would give much to hear the bee-like song, Rising from thy pure heart in numbers clear,O'er the white pebbles,—ah! it hath been long Since paused I there, with smiling lip to hear.
Where are thy haunts? Methinks I see thee still, Winding, like silvery threads, with brow of light,Thy shining arms around the clovered hill, Where young birds chirp among the grasses bright,And balmy breezes bear soft odors down The yellow ridges of the rocking wheat—Thy every wave a sunbeam's golden crown, Thy every tone a waif of music sweet.
Along the orchard, where the shining leaves Flutter and rustle all the summer's day,Thy sunny brow full many a leaf receives, And wafts it, like a fairy-barque, away,—Through the green lawn, where tall trees wave on high Their strong brown arms; and this, the quiet glen,Where sun-like flowers send fragrance to the sky, And blessings, through the dew, fall back again.
Dear, sunny stream, oh! does the sunbeam's woof Lie, like gold tissue, on thy singing breast?Dost thou still see the steep old homestead roof? And the white church spire, melting in the west?And hast thou quite forgotten, as the years Have slowly circled, with their change, away,The joyous-hearted child, whose hopes and fears Cast not a shadow further than the day?
I know not, stream beloved,—when, sick with strife And quenchless thirstings, I have thought of thee,And wished, like thine, the current of my life Floated in quiet beauty toward the sea,—But in my heart there is a secret urn, A place of purity, and there I keepThe jewels of my childhood, and I turn From the world's music to their place of sleep.
Stream, loved in childhood, oft I come to thee, O'er weary miles, on Thought's mysterious wings;Bringing away thy music, as a bee Brings the rich honey with the song it sings.I know thy haunts by grove, and hill, and dell; By the old homestead, 'neath the willow tree;—As of the ocean moans the faithful shell, So sings my heart, forevermore, of thee.