Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/440

412 To the revels and routs in the taverns of long ago;

When the dancing would last till dawn, and the dancers flew

From village to village, and tavern to tavern, all night;

Turning the snow-lit dark to rollicking day.

O days and nights of a far and happy world!

V

Of childhood the old house whispers, of wintry sports

With sled and skate on the ponds long filled and forgotten;

Wild joys of meadow, and woods, and waters; of branches

Laden with black-heart cherries, where boys and birds

Alternate shared the wealth of the aery feast.

Of boyhood the old house whispers, of moonlit voyages

On the wooded stream, that wound in silent reaches,

Far through the mystic land of awakening life.

VI

And now, in the twilight hour, dear, living voices,

The voices of children I hear, they come to my call;

And I tell of the days that are gone, and they hark with delight—

As I, in my youth, heard the tales of the ancient days;

Then good-night, and to bed! But the teller of ancient tales

Stays by the dying fire and listens, again,

To the thronging voices that murmur to him alone.

"THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE THE OLD PLACE!"

I

to the old place I've come home again,

Back at last from the big town,