The Old Is Better
ALONE, alone, thro’ the sunny street,
In the shadow of a dream,
The forms and faces I pass and meet
In a mist and darkness seem.
The old gray houses stand a-row,
Their windows blink and stare,
The sparrows chirp on the lilac bough
From the garden in the square.
The busy mower whets his scythe,
He hums a cheery rhyme;
The wild bees murmur, and drowse and dive
In the blossom of the lime.
The forms and faces that come and go,
They flicker and wane and gleam,
As I walk through the streets of long ago
In the shadow of a dream.
The faces waver and fade away;
While under the lilac bough
Upspringeth the aspect, bright and gay,
Of a face I used to know.
I see her stand, and she calls my name,
And my heart and pulses glow
As the old life starts like a buried flame,
And the new life flickers low.
The present darkens and faints and fades,
And the old-loved smiles shine through;
The living wander, like ghostly shades,
And the lost are born anew.
And my soul with the joy of its calm is rife,
As I bask in my after-glow,
For I loved my love, and I lived my life
In the days of long ago.
Mary L. Hankin.