Listening with quickened heart and ear intent To each sharp clause of that stern argument, I still can hear at times a softer note Of the old pastoral music round me float, Drops the old bucket in the homestead well, The country doctor in the foreground seems, Dragged, like a war-car, captive ills and pains. I could not paint the scenery of my song, Of each small brook, and what the hillside trees blown ; The tough old boatman, half amphibious grown; OVER the wooded northern ridge, Between its houses brown, To the dark tunnel of the bridge The street comes straggling down. You catch a glimpse through birch and pine Of gable, roof, and porch, The tavern with its swinging sign, The river's steel-blue crescent curves To meet, in ebb and flow, The single broken wharf that serves For sloop and gundelow. With salt sea-scents along its shores The heavy hay-boats crawl, The long antennæ of their oars In lazy rise and fall. Along the gray abutment's wall The idle shad-net dries; The toll-man in his cobbler's stall Sits smoking with closed eyes. You hear the pier's low undertone At times a blacksmith's anvil sounds A place for idle eyes and ears, A cobwebbed nook of dreams; Left by the stream whose waves are years The stranded village seems. And there, like other moss and rust, The native dweller clings, And keeps, in uninquiring trust, The old, dull round of things. The fisher drops his patient lines, Content to hear the murmuring pines Instead of railroad-train. Go where, along the tangled steep In still profounder rest. Throw back the locust's flowery plume, The birch's pale-green scarf, And break the web of brier and bloom From name and epitaph. |