THE time is gone when we could throw Our angle in the sleepy stream, And nothing more desired to know Than was it roach or was it bream? Sitting there in such a mute delight, The kingfisher would come and on the rods alight. Or, hurrying through the dewy hay Without a thought but to make haste, We came to where the old ring lay And bats and balls seemed heaven at least. With our laughing and our giant strokes The echoes clacked among the chestnuts and the oaks. When the spring came up we got And out among old Ammet Hills Blossoms, aye and pleasures sought And found! bloom withers, pleasure chills; Then geographers along wild brooks We named the tumbling-bays and creeks and horse-shoe crooks. But one day I found a man Leaning on the bridge's rail; Dared his downward face to scan, And awestruck wondered what could ail An elder, blest with all the gifts of years, In such a happy place to shed such bitter tears. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ISN'T IT ROMANTIC by KAREN SWENSON EFFIGY OF A NUN (SIXTEENTH CENTURY) by SARA TEASDALE THE BRIDGE: PROEM. TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE by HAROLD HART CRANE CLARE'S DRAGOONS by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS MODERN LOVE: 47 by GEORGE MEREDITH AT THE SHRINE by RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK |