Ah! often when coming from labour,
When I hear the children play,
There rises within me a vision
Of the school-house far away—
The old, dark, humble school-house,
That stood by the little stream,
That babbled and splash'd in the sunshine,
Or slipp'd into pools to dream.
And, again, as I think of my childhood,
And its circle of sunny land,
Comes the wish to stand by that streamlet,
As of old I used to stand—
Just to listen again to its murmurs,
As I did in that early time,
When my life—before and behind me—
Had the ring of a poet's rhyme:
Or to stand on the bridge with the children,
And give one long, deep shout,
That might sweep from my bosom's chamber
The dust of manhood out.
For I weary and fret at the knowledge
This manhood has brought to me,
And forever look back with a longing
To the glory that used to be.
But vain is that pent-up yearning,
And wish for the summer gleam
That ran through my young existence,
Like the plot through a fairy's dream.
It has sunk away as the sunshine
May fade from the breast of a hill,
And the shadow that now is around me
Is misty and drear and chill.
But still, when I come from my labour,
If I hear the children play,
Then my heart goes back to the school-house
And the village far away.