Poetry Archives

I wonder who the children are
   That troop to school these days
Along the old McDuffie path
   That winds through woody ways
And leads into the road whereby
   The neighbors go to mill.
I wonder who the scholars are
   At Old Spring Hill.
I wonder if they play the games
   We played when I was there—
Round-town, low-razor, bull-pen, cat,
   Base, leap-frog, hounds and hare.
Perhaps the spring is choked with leaves;
   Perhaps the church is gone,
With all its shattered panes that told
   Of wild balls thrown.
Whoe’er the children are, I know
   The same old noise is there:
The droning whisper, afternoons
   When chalk-dust fills the air,
The same old fractions multiplied,
   The same old cities named;
Mensa, mensae is still declined,
   And Spartacus declaimed.
But, oh, the vines of muscadines
   That cluster in those woods!
Those ripe persimmons, hanging high,
   Loose in their browning hoods;
Those tough dwarf-apples, full of seed,
   Are ready now to eat.
And thorns of prickly-pear, though dead,
   Are quite alert for feet.
If I should go there now, those brats
   Would stare into my face
And whisper who that stranger was
   That sauntered round the place.
But, though the tow-heads knew me not,
   I could have all my will
Of those dear memoried childhood haunts
   At old Spring Hill.