Main Street by Moonlight
The old church clock strikes one, and down the row
Of ancient houses where the moonlight floods,
The black tree branches move like wands that throw
A net of woven loopings flecked with buds.
The night is still, a silver quiet now
Transforms the plain old homes whose ancient mood
Returns; through panelled doorways come and go
Figures soft shod, in prim calash and hood;
Here by a lilac bush the little gate
Supports two figures of sweetheart and beau
Here by a hedge two others hesitate
Then join the shadowy thronging too and fro.
Do you believe that in those rooms upstair
The newer generation dreams again
Back to the lives of all these women and men
Setting them free to haunt the pavements here?
That youngsters sleeping see sails homeward fare,
Ships laden with treasure and salt romance;
The Quakers’ broad brim; Puritans askance?
That such bold dreaming sets these spirits free
On this deserted street in moonlit beam
“Coming alive,” though coming soberly
And looking on us as figures in their dream?
Hush, with what proud simplicity these figures move
And live again austerities of grace
Who used their lives so guardedly—this glove
The homespun petticoat! this barbe of lace!
Boots and prunellas on the brick path pace;
Fair tinted skin, clear eye and honored name
Come through the panelled doors or garden place.
The scholars’ reserve, the solid merchants’ fame
The Friends, the Captains, blooded knight and dame,
Who to old English gentry backward trace.
So through the cobbled streets they silently press
On very gentle errands of their own
And make no plea, and no proud tale confess
Nor look aghast at their once simple town
Yet do they smile, permitting us to guess
That they prefer their own to our renown....
Was that the clock just struck... the street is clear
The moon rides high, there are no figures here....
Someone stopped dreaming in this street, my dear!