Poetry Archives

I am growing old and weary
  Ere yet my locks are gray;
Before me lies eternity,
  Behind me—but a day.
How fast the years are vanishing!
  They melt like April snow:
It seems to me but yesterday—
  Twenty years ago.

There’s the school-house on the hill-side,
  And the romping scholars all;
Where we used to con our daily tasks,
  And play our games of ball.
They rise to me in visions—
  In sunny dreams—and ho’
I sport among the boys and girls
  Twenty years ago.

We played at ball in summer time—
  We boys—with hearty will;
With merry shouts in winter time
  We coasted on the hill.
We would choose our chiefs, divide in bands,
  And build our forts of snow,
And storm those forts right gallantly—
  Twenty years ago.

Last year in June I visited
  That dear old sacred spot,
But the school-house on the hill-side
  And the merry shouts were not.
A church was standing where it stood;
  I looked around, but no—
I could not see the boys and girls
  Of twenty years ago.

There was sister dear, and brother,
  Around the old home-hearth;
And a tender, Christian mother,
  Too angel-like for earth.
She used to warn me from the paths
  Where thorns and brambles grow,
And lead me in the “narrow way”—
  Twenty years ago.

I loved her and I honored her
  Through all my boyhood years;
I knew her joys—I knew her cares—
  I knew her hopes and fears.
But alas, one autumn morning
  She left her home below,
And she left us there a-weeping—
  Twenty years ago.

They bore her to the church-yard,
  With slow and solemn pace;
And there I took my last fond look
  On her dear, peaceful face.
They lowered her in her silent grave,
  While we bowed our heads in woe,
And they heaped the sods above her head—
  Twenty years ago.

That low, sweet voice—my mother’s voice—
  I never can forget;
And in those loving eyes I see
  The big tears trembling yet.
I try to tread the “narrow way;”
  I stumble oft I know:
I miss—how much!—the helping hand
  Of twenty years ago.

Mary—(Mary I will call you—
  ’Tis not the old-time name)
Sainted Mary—blue-eyed Mary—
  Are you in heaven the same?
Are your eyes as bright and beautiful,
  Your cheeks as full of glow,
As when the school-boy kissed you, May,
  Twenty years ago?

How we swung upon the grape-vine
  Down by the Genesee;
  And I caught the speckled trout for you,
    While you gathered flowers for me:
  How we rambled o’er the meadows
    With brows and cheeks aglow,
  And hearts like God’s own angels—
    Twenty years ago.

How our young hearts grew together
  Until they beat as one;
Distrust it could not enter;
  Cares and fears were none.
All my love was yours, dear Mary,
  ’Twas boyish love, I know;
But I ne’er have loved as then I loved—
  Twenty years ago.

How we pictured out the future—
  The golden coming years,
And saw no cloud in all our sky,
  No gloomy mist of tears;
But ah—how vain are human hopes!
  The angels came—and O—
They bore my darling up to heaven—
  Twenty years ago.

I will not tell—I cannot tell—
  What anguish wrung my soul;
But a silent grief is on my heart
  Though the years so swiftly roll;
And I cannot shake it off, May,
  This lingering sense of woe,
Though I try to drown the memory
  Of twenty years ago.

I am fighting life’s stern battle, May,
  With all my might and main;
But a seat by you and mother there
  Is the dearest prize to gain;
And I know you both are near me,
  Whatever winds may blow,
For I feel your spirits cheer me
  Like twenty years ago.