Old friend, I know you line by line,
The touch, the tone, the turn of phrase,
Old autumn day, beloved and mine,
Returning after many days:
The ten years’ journey since we bade farewell
No hinted change or loss in you would ever tell.
Your countenance still ripe and kind
Gazes upon me, godlike day,
And finding you again I find
The tricks of time all thrown away.
The recollected turns to here and now
Beneath the equipoising glory of your brow.
Now to your heaven the gossamers gleam,
Still soaring in their trembling play;
Their rosy scarves are spied astream,
Whence borne and blown no one could say –
All out and dancing in the blue profound,
The tranquil ultimation of the ages round.
And there’s that narrow orchard grass,
The last green luck for many a mile;
The patient lines of mules I pass,
And then must stand and chaff awhile
With gallant Maycock, spurred and gaitered, glowing.
With this ripe sun, and red as any orchard growing,
This comrade, born to sow and stack,
– A golden sheaf might seem his brother –
To-night will ride where the angry track
Is death and ruin in a smother,
To-night I, too, must face the world’s mad end –
But first we’ll make this day, this godlike day our friend.