An Old Man’s Idyl
By the waters of Life we sat together,
Hand in hand, in the golden days
Of the beautiful early summer weather,
When hours were anthems and speech was praise;
When the heart kept time to the carol of birds,
And the birds kept tune to the songs that ran
Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards,
And trees with voices Æolian.
By the rivers of Life we walked together,
I and my darling, unafraid;
And lighter than any linnet’s feather
The burdens of being on us weighed;
And Love’s sweet miracles o’er us threw
Mantles of joy outlasting Time;
And up from the rosy morrows grew
A sound that seemed like a marriage-chime.
In the gardens of Life we roamed together;
And the luscious apples were ripe and red,
And the languid lilac and honeyed heather
Swooned with the fragrance which they shed.
And under the trees the Angels walked,
And up in the air a sense of wings
Awed us sacredly while we talked
Softly in tender communings.
In the meadows of life we strayed together,
Watching the waving harvests grow;
And under the benison of the Father
Our hearts like the lambs skipped to and fro.
And the cowslips, hearing our low replies,
Broidered fairer the emerald banks;
And glad tears shone in the daisies’ eyes,
And the timid violet glistened thanks.
Who was with us, and what was round us,
Neither myself nor darling guessed;
Only we knew that something crowned us
Out from the heavens with crowns of rest.
Only we knew that something bright
Lingered lovingly where we stood,
Clothed with the incandescent light
Of something higher than humanhood.
O the riches Love doth inherit!
Ah the alchemy which doth change
Dross of body and dregs of spirit
Into sanctities rare and strange!
My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old,
My darling’s beautiful hair is gray;
But our elixir and precious gold
Laugh at the footsteps of decay.
Harms of the world have come upon us,
Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain;
But we have a secret which doth show us
Wonderful rainbows through the rain;
And we hear the tread of the years go by,
And the sun is setting behind the hills;
But my darling does not fear to die,
And I am happy in what God wills.
So we sit by our household fires together,
Dreaming the dreams of long ago.
Then it was balmy summer weather,
And now the valleys are laid in snow,
Icicles hang from the slippery eaves,
The wind grows cold,—it is growing late.
Well, well,—we have garnered all our sheaves,
I and my darling,—and we wait.
Richard Realf.