The master paused, the birch he grasped Against his trousers flicking; Rafe said, with hands behind him clasped, “I’d rather take the licking.”
Full many a year has passed since then, The lilacs still are blooming, Awaiting childish hands again, But they are long in coming.
Now wandering swallows build their nests Where doors and roofs decaying, No more shut in the master’s zest, Nor out the children’s playing.
All, all are gone who gathered there; Some toil among the masses, Some, overworn with pain and care, Wait Death’s “Prepare for classes.”
And some--the sighing pines sway on Above them, dreamless lying; And ‘mong them sleeps the master, gone His anger and their crying.
And Rafe Ridall, brave then, brave now, Amid the jarring courses Of man’s misrule, still takes the blow For those of weaker forces.
A little brown sparrow came tripping Across the green grass at my feet; A kingfisher poised, and was peering Where current and calm water meet;
The clouds hung in passionless clusters Above the green hills of the south; A bobolink fluttered to leeward With a twinkle of bells in its mouth.
Ah, the morning was silver with glory As I lay by my tent on the shore; And the soft air was drunken with odours, And my soul lifted up to adore.
Is there wonder I took me to dreaming Of the gardens of Greece and old Rome, Of the fair watered meadows of Ida, And the hills where the gods made their home?
Of the Argonauts sung to by Sirens, Of Andromache, Helen of Troy, Of Proserpine, Iphigenia, And the Fates that build up and destroy?
Of the phantom isle, green Theresea, And the Naiads and Dryads that give To the soul of the poet, the dreamer, The visions of fancy that live
In the lives and the language of mortals Unconscious, but sure as the sea, And that make for great losses repayment To wandering singers like me?
But a little brown sparrow came tripping Across the green grass at my feet; And a kingfisher poised, and was peering Where current and calm water meet;
And Alice, sweet Alice, my neighbour, Stands musing beneath the pine tree; And her look says--“I have a lover Who sails on the turbulent sea:
Does he dream as I dream night and daytime Of a face that is tender and true; Will he come to me e’en as he left me?” Yes, Alice, sweet Alice, for you,