Along this path he walked, great Washington,
Who built a nation out of selfish men;
These trees he planted, here he stood and mused
On spring's first blossoms, or on autumn's gain.
By this loved river, flowing wide and free,
He sighed for rest from all the cares of state.
How dear his home! And yet he could not pause
While traitors tore his land with greed and hate;
He could not free himself, whose character
Was part and parcel of his country's name.
He found no lasting rest, though worn and spent,
Till death relieved him from the bonds of fame.

I

Along the tangled path and in the red
mountain and in the monotonous plain
there survives not a trace of verdure,
not a blade of grass, not a thistle.

Alone from the obscure latania
the arid ivy hangs its last remains
above the murmur of the south-west wind
and the rustling heaps of stubble straw.

Evening falls cinereous and chill
and over the homestead and the sea
an overwhelming desolation spreads.

There is no sound of life save, at the hour
of the most sorrowful decline of day,

A LONG the road all shapes must travel by,
How swiftly, to my thinking, now doth fare
The wanderer who built his watchtower there
Where wind is torn with wind continually!
Lo! from the world and its dull pain to fly,
Unto such pinnacle did he repair,
And of her presence was not made aware,
Whose face, that looks like Peace, is Death's own lie.
Alas, Ambition, thou his enemy,
Who lurest the poor wanderer on his way,
But never bring'st him where his rest may be, —
O leave him now, for he is gone astray

Along the river most homes here
belong to fishermen;
willow embankments and chestnut ponds
are scattered everywhere.
But it's most beautiful after sunset
when the wind calms down:
a riverside of trees all red
and people selling perch.

A LONG the pastoral ways I go,
To get the healing of the trees,
The ghostly news the hedges know;
To hive me honey like the bees,
Against the time of snow.

The common hawthorn that I see,
Beside the sunken wall astir,
Or any other blossoming tree,
Is each God's fair white gospeller,
His book upon the knee.

A gust-broken bough; a pilfered nest;
Rumors of orchard or of bin;
The thrifty things of east and west, —
The countryside becomes my Inn,
And I its happy guest.

Along the lake the bugle rings,
And hark! what harmony of sound
Breaks through the mountains: silv'ry clear
The chorus is diffused around.
It multiplies from cliff to cliff,
A weird antiphony, so sweet
The magic tones, the heart throbs high,
Entranced with unison complete.

Ay, listen! now it steals again:
From peak to peak the music rings,
Wave upon wave; until the soul
Thrilled and subdued, in rapture sings.
One echo wakes, it dies away;
Soft, softer, hushed, till in a dream
Of ecstasy divine we muse,

A LONG the garden ways just now
— I heard the flowers speak;
The white rose told me of your brow,
— The red rose of your cheek;
The lily of your bended head,
— The bindweed of your hair;
Each looked its loveliest and said
— You were more fair.

I went into the wood anon,
— And heard the wild birds sing,
How sweet you were, they warbled on,
— Piped, trilled, the selfsame thing.
Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause
— The burden did repeat,
And still began again because
— You were more sweet.

A LONG the dark, and silent night,
With my Lantern, and my Light,
And the tinkling of my Bell,
Thus I walk, and this I tell:
Death and dreadfulnesse call on,
To the gen'rall Session;
To whose dismall Barre, we there
All accompts must come to cleere:
Scores of sins w'ave made here many,
Wip't out few, (God knowes) if any.
Rise ye Debters then, and fall
To make payment, while I call.
Ponder this, when I am gone;
By the clock 'tis almost One .

There is little I can do
besides stoop to pluck them
one by one from the ground,
their roots all weak links,
this hoard of Lazaruses popping up
at night, not the Heavenly Blue
so like silk handkerchiefs,
nor the Giant White so timid
in the face of the moon,
but poor relations who visit
then stay. They sleep in my garden.
Each morning I evict them.
Each night more arrive, their leaves
small, green shrouds,
reminding me the mother root
waits deep underground
and I dig but will never find her
and her children will inherit

Along the avenue of cypresses,
All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices
Of linen, go the chanting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .

And all along the path to the cemetery
The round dark heads of men crowd silently,
And black-scarved faces of womenfolk, wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels
With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels