Classic Poem

Let us go up to Wildwood,
Haven on the starry hill,
Where one by one beneath their names
Men we knew lie still;
Still as the shadows touch them
And the west pales from its red;
Still in the fresh September night
The mist creeps on the dead.
Grey mist and green earth-cover
Between the dead and the skies,
Or the sunset on their cheek would blush,
The dawn would light their eyes;
Half to the east are sentinel,
Half are a watch in the west;
And the trees stand above them all,
Rooted deep in rest.
The branch that takes the weather,
And moves in rain or sun,
Lays hold below on buried men
And their two lives are one.
Is it ghosts that talk, or branches
Planted in Wildwood's trust,
Who by the open grave rebuke
The solemn " Dust to dust " ?
Why hurt with mournful speech —
Our pleasant comfort, Brother,
That children of one mother
Shall mingle each with each?
Is it ghosts that walk in Wildwood,
Or only living trees,
That shimmer past beneath the stars
And touch us with the breeze?
This tender, frail beseeching,
This presence tremulous,
Is it man to earth outreaching,
Is it earth that yearns to us?
Let us go up to Wildwood
And think on men we knew,
Who from the peace wherein they lie,
Brother to earth and tree and sky,
Still through quenchless love draw nigh
And watch to keep us true.

The day is ended of boyish greeting
On the village street, in the college halls,
The summer-scattered comrades meeting
With laugh and jest and happy calls,
Ah, single in the glee and riot,
Who is this boy with shining eyes
That in a manful cloak of quiet
Wraps his tumult of surprise?
Through surges of delirious clamor
Aloof with his new thoughts he moves,
And, lonely, sees in brighter glamour
The household of his homely loves.
He feels with unsuspected power;
No nerve seems habit-worn or dim;
Edged with a weird-illumined wonder,
All sights and sounds take hold of him;
The hillsides from the chapel tower,
How the bell haled the hours by,
How his room looked, and the valley yonder,
He will remember till he die.
This answer to the world that calls him,
This reach of heart, shall he outgrow?
This spirit infinitely thrilling
Ever be dull? We cannot know;
Keen-thoughted now, with quick desires,
Ah, for a friend to walk beside,
Through the fierce dividing fires
Where the fate of youth is tried!
Would not the eyes that watched this venture
Kindle to judgment less and less?
Would not the voice of cheer or censure
Sound at last of wistfulness?
Let us go up to Wildwood,
Star-home of faithful men,
And bid the new earth lightly cover
Boyhood's most forgiving lover,
Such a friend, the wide world over,
Boyhood shall not find again.
Who is this walks the Wildwood road
In the soft starlight,
Who plies his staff, his shoulders stooping,
And hurries through the night?
The sombre hat, broad brim, high crown;
The long hair white with many snows;
The prophet beard that squarely down
A span's length on his bosom flows;
Winthrop's counsellor, or Bradford's,
Comrade of Cotton Mather's men, —
What Puritan, what Pilgrim Father
Is summoned from his rest again?
He strikes his staff with quick impatience,
Yet we hear nothing meet the ground;
His lips — what errand troubles him? —
Move and mutter without sound.
His bent head suddenly he raises,
He takes us sharply in his view,
He sights at us along his beard, —
He is the man we knew!
Into the wistful phantom eyes
We ask — ah me, without avail!
We gaze — we almost hear once more
His sudden, sharp, emphatic hail.
He will not tarry, — well we know
His trouble and his journey's end;
Yonder a boy away from home
Has need of him for friend!
Ah, lad, could you but see him here,
Could he but find you with his love,
The passion of the forest-breath
Would draw you hillward till your death,
The yearning of the earth beneath
And the clean stars above.

Trees that stand in Wildwood,
How firm your love endures,
Now he, your best interpreter,
Mingles his life with yours.
We cannot tell you twain apart,
Tree-lover from the trees,
Who move beneath the stars together
And touch us with the breeze.