His Statement of the Case

“now half a hundred years had I been born— So many and so brief—when made aware, By Time’s blunt looks, of hoar-frost in my hair. I turned to one of twenty, in the corn, At husking time, that blissful autumn morn, And said, ‘What if the red ear fall to me?’ I would not for the world have any see The look, half doubtful, mazeful, half in scorn, That grew through all degrees, then broke in laughter, As she ran down among the beardless men. I left the husking, nor returned thereafter, That autumn morn, nor any morn since then. But you shall see gray beards in a long row, Upon the rustic roads where I now go.”

Collection: 

More from Poet

  • There are some quiet ways— Ay, not a few— Where the affections grow, And noble days Distil a gentle praise That, as cool dew, Or aromatic gums Within a bower, In after-times becomes A calm, perennial dower. There wayside bush and briar! These lend a grace, Flashing a glad...

  • “now half a hundred years had I been born— So many and so brief—when made aware, By Time’s blunt looks, of hoar-frost in my hair. I turned to one of twenty, in the corn, At husking time, that blissful autumn morn, And said, ‘What if the red ear fall to me?’ I would not for the world have any see...

  • The wild geese, flying in the night, behold Our sunken towns lie underneath a sea, Which buoys them on its billows. Liberty They have, but such as those frail barques of old That crossed unsounded mains to search our wold. To them the night unspeakable is free; They have the moon and stars for...

  • brook, would thou couldst flow With a music all thine own— Thy babble of music alone— Not a word of the Long Ago In thy brawling down below, Not a sigh of the wind by thee, The wind in the willow tree! Or, Brook, if thou couldst go, As once, in the prime of May, For a whole long holiday, When...

  • Come, silence, thou sweet reasoner, Lay thy soft hand on all that stir— On grass and shrub and tree and flower, And let this be thine own dear hour. No more across the neighbor rill To that lone cottage on the hill Shall wonder with her questions go, Seeking if joy be there or no. No longer...