At Chappaqua

His cherished woods are mute. The stream glides down The hill as when I knew it years ago; The dark, pine arbor with its priestly gown Stands hushed, as if our grief it still would show; The silver springs are cupless, and the flow Of friendly feet no more bereaves the grass, For he is absent who was wont to pass Along this wooded path. His axe’s blow No more disturbs the impertinent bole or bough; Nor moves his pen our heedless nation now, Which, sworn to justice, stirred the people so. In some far world his much-loved face must glow With rapture still. This breeze once fanned his brow. This is the peaceful Mecca all men know!