An Outdoor Reception

On these green banks, where falls too soon     The shade of Autumn's afternoon,     The south wind blowing soft and sweet,     The water gliding at nay feet,     The distant northern range uplit     By the slant sunshine over it,     With changes of the mountain mist     From tender blush to amethyst,     The valley's stretch of shade and gleam     Fair as in Mirza's Bagdad dream,     With glad young faces smiling near     And merry voices in my ear,     I sit, methinks, as Hafiz might     In Iran's Garden of Delight.     For Persian roses blushing red,     Aster and gentian bloom instead;     For Shiraz wine, this mountain air;     For feast, the blueberries which I share     With one who proffers with stained hands     Her gleanings from yon pasture lands,     Wild fruit that art and culture spoil,     The harvest of an untilled soil;     And with her one whose tender eyes     Reflect the change of April skies,     Midway 'twixt child and maiden yet,     Fresh as Spring's earliest violet;     And one whose look and voice and ways     Make where she goes idyllic days;     And one whose sweet, still countenance     Seems dreamful of a child's romance;     And others, welcome as are these,     Like and unlike, varieties     Of pearls on nature's chaplet strung,     And all are fair, for all are young.     Gathered from seaside cities old,     From midland prairie, lake, and wold,     From the great wheat-fields, which might feed     The hunger of a world at need,     In healthful change of rest and play     Their school-vacations glide away.     No critics these: they only see     An old and kindly friend in me,     In whose amused, indulgent look     Their innocent mirth has no rebuke.     They scarce can know my rugged rhymes,     The harsher songs of evil times,     Nor graver themes in minor keys     Of life's and death's solemnities;     But haply, as they bear in mind     Some verse of lighter, happier kind,     Hints of the boyhood of the man,     Youth viewed from life's meridian,     Half seriously and half in play     My pleasant interviewers pay     Their visit, with no fell intent     Of taking notes and punishment.     As yonder solitary pine     Is ringed below with flower and vine,     More favored than that lonely tree,     The bloom of girlhood circles me.     In such an atmosphere of youth     I half forget my age's truth;     The shadow of my life's long date     Runs backward on the dial-plate,     Until it seems a step might span     The gulf between the boy and man.     My young friends smile, as if some jay     On bleak December's leafless spray     Essayed to sing the songs of May.     Well, let them smile, and live to know,     When their brown locks are flecked with snow,     'T is tedious to be always sage     And pose the dignity of age,     While so much of our early lives     On memory's playground still survives,     And owns, as at the present hour,     The spell of youth's magnetic power.     But though I feel, with Solomon,     'T is pleasant to behold the sun,     I would not if I could repeat     A life which still is good and sweet;     I keep in age, as in my prime,     A not uncheerful step with time,     And, grateful for all blessings sent,     I go the common way, content     To make no new experiment.     On easy terms with law and fate,     For what must be I calmly wait,     And trust the path I cannot see,     That God is good sufficeth me.     And when at last on life's strange play     The curtain falls, I only pray     That hope may lose itself in truth,     And age in Heaven's immortal youth,     And all our loves and longing prove     The foretaste of diviner love.     The day is done. Its afterglow     Along the west is burning low.     My visitors, like birds, have flown;     I hear their voices, fainter grown,     And dimly through the dusk I see     Their 'kerchiefs wave good-night to me,     Light hearts of girlhood, knowing nought     Of all the cheer their coming brought;     And, in their going, unaware     Of silent-following feet of prayer     Heaven make their budding promise good     With flowers of gracious womanhood