The old log house, built by his own hands In those wilderness days, still stands, And its great open fireplace welcomes. Taking his pipe from his mouth, my grandsire Sat in deep thought by the oakwood fire, whose flames Were moving, struggling men, living again In dreams, in rememberings: -- His mother weeping as he leaves for the war; The cannons' red roar at dawn; Soldiers with arms outflung, Staggering, falling at Murfreesboro, at Bull Run. The emptiness and devastation of his Southland; Bewildered, helpless slaves huddling about their cabins; The grave of his mother, marked by a three-year Willow, disheveled and sighing. An immigrant train: Wagons, toiling oxen, sleepless men Move across his vision. Indians clinging to the sides of their maddened horses Encircle these stranger pilgrims. At the crack of his rifle A horse and rider plunge to the earth. Startled... he is awakened from his dream And sees that the stick of wood burned in two Has fallen. Turning to his Eveline he thinks aloud: "Mother, the woodlands are changed, And today I saw wild cranes passing, And I felt restless, Because life's winter is upon us." Then, knocking the ashes from his pipe, He arose, wound the clock, and said, "I shall sleep." And a door closed silently. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MAKING OF MAN by JOHN WHITE CHADWICK CALYPSO WATCHING THE OCEAN by LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON MODERN LOVE: 1 by GEORGE MEREDITH NEW HEAVEN, NEW WAR by ROBERT SOUTHWELL CASTOR AND POLYDEUCES by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE A WATER MILL by ANTIPATER OF THESSALONICA PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 37. AL-HALI by EDWIN ARNOLD |