THE HAPPIEST TIME.ByELIZA COOK.Anold man sat in his chimney-seat,As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet;And he watched the Spring light as it cameWith wider ray on his window frame.He looked right on to the Eastern sky,But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh,And those who heard it wondered muchWhat Spirit hand made him feel its touch.For the old man was not one of the fairAnd sensitive plants in earth’s parterre;His heart was among the senseless things,That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee’s wings;It bore no film of delicate pride,No dew of emotion gathered inside;O, that old man’s heart was of hardy kind,That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind.He had lived in the world as millions live,Ever more ready to take than give;He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed,And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed;He had driven his bargains and counted his gold,Till upwards of threescore years were told;And his keen blue eye held nothing to showThat feeling had ever been busy below.The old man sighed again, and hidHis keen blue eye beneath its lid;And his wrinkled forehead, bending down,Was knitting itself in a painful frown.“I’ve been looking back,” the old man said,“On every spot where my path has laid,Over every year my brain can trace,To find the happiest time and place.”“And where and when,” cried one by his side,“Have you found the brightest wave in your tide?Come tell me freely, and let me learn,How the spark was struck that yet can burn.Was it when you stood in stalwart strength,With the blood of youth, and felt that at lengthYour stout right arm could win its bread?”The old man quietly shook his head.“Then it must have been when love had come,With a faithful bride to glad your home;Or when the first-born cooed and smiled,And your bosom cradled its own sweet child;Or was it when that first-born joy,Grew up to your hope,—a brave, strong boy,—And promised to fill the world in your stead?”The old man quietly shook his head.“Say, was it then when fortune broughtThe round sum you had frugally sought?Was the year the happiest that beheldThe vision of poverty all dispelled?Or was it when you still had more,And found you could boast a goodly storeWith labor finished and plenty spread?”The old man quietly shook his head.“Ah, no! ah, no! it was longer ago,”The old man muttered,—sadly and low!“It was when I took my lonely wayTo the lonely woods in the month of May.When the Spring light fell as it falleth now,With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough;When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree;O, that was the happiest time for me.“When I used to leap and laugh and shout,Though I never knew what my joy was about;And something seemed to warm my breast,As I sat on a mossy bank to rest.That was the time; when I used to rollOn the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll,And I never could tell why the thought should be,But I fancied the flowers talked to me.“Well I remember climbing to reachA squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech;Well I remember the lilies so sweet,That I toiled with back to the city street;Yes,thatwas the time,—the happiest time,—When I went to the woods in their May-day prime.”And the old man breathed with a longer sigh,And the lid fell closer over his eye.O, who would have thought this hard old manHad room in his heart for such rainbow span?Who would have deemed that wild copse flowersWere tenderly haunting his latest hours?But what did the old man’s spirit tell,In confessing it loved the woods so well?What do we learn from the old man’s sigh,But thatNature and Poetry cannot die?
THE HAPPIEST TIME.ByELIZA COOK.
Anold man sat in his chimney-seat,As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet;And he watched the Spring light as it cameWith wider ray on his window frame.He looked right on to the Eastern sky,But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh,And those who heard it wondered muchWhat Spirit hand made him feel its touch.For the old man was not one of the fairAnd sensitive plants in earth’s parterre;His heart was among the senseless things,That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee’s wings;It bore no film of delicate pride,No dew of emotion gathered inside;O, that old man’s heart was of hardy kind,That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind.He had lived in the world as millions live,Ever more ready to take than give;He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed,And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed;He had driven his bargains and counted his gold,Till upwards of threescore years were told;And his keen blue eye held nothing to showThat feeling had ever been busy below.The old man sighed again, and hidHis keen blue eye beneath its lid;And his wrinkled forehead, bending down,Was knitting itself in a painful frown.“I’ve been looking back,” the old man said,“On every spot where my path has laid,Over every year my brain can trace,To find the happiest time and place.”“And where and when,” cried one by his side,“Have you found the brightest wave in your tide?Come tell me freely, and let me learn,How the spark was struck that yet can burn.Was it when you stood in stalwart strength,With the blood of youth, and felt that at lengthYour stout right arm could win its bread?”The old man quietly shook his head.“Then it must have been when love had come,With a faithful bride to glad your home;Or when the first-born cooed and smiled,And your bosom cradled its own sweet child;Or was it when that first-born joy,Grew up to your hope,—a brave, strong boy,—And promised to fill the world in your stead?”The old man quietly shook his head.“Say, was it then when fortune broughtThe round sum you had frugally sought?Was the year the happiest that beheldThe vision of poverty all dispelled?Or was it when you still had more,And found you could boast a goodly storeWith labor finished and plenty spread?”The old man quietly shook his head.“Ah, no! ah, no! it was longer ago,”The old man muttered,—sadly and low!“It was when I took my lonely wayTo the lonely woods in the month of May.When the Spring light fell as it falleth now,With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough;When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree;O, that was the happiest time for me.“When I used to leap and laugh and shout,Though I never knew what my joy was about;And something seemed to warm my breast,As I sat on a mossy bank to rest.That was the time; when I used to rollOn the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll,And I never could tell why the thought should be,But I fancied the flowers talked to me.“Well I remember climbing to reachA squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech;Well I remember the lilies so sweet,That I toiled with back to the city street;Yes,thatwas the time,—the happiest time,—When I went to the woods in their May-day prime.”And the old man breathed with a longer sigh,And the lid fell closer over his eye.O, who would have thought this hard old manHad room in his heart for such rainbow span?Who would have deemed that wild copse flowersWere tenderly haunting his latest hours?But what did the old man’s spirit tell,In confessing it loved the woods so well?What do we learn from the old man’s sigh,But thatNature and Poetry cannot die?
Anold man sat in his chimney-seat,As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet;And he watched the Spring light as it cameWith wider ray on his window frame.He looked right on to the Eastern sky,But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh,And those who heard it wondered muchWhat Spirit hand made him feel its touch.For the old man was not one of the fairAnd sensitive plants in earth’s parterre;His heart was among the senseless things,That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee’s wings;It bore no film of delicate pride,No dew of emotion gathered inside;O, that old man’s heart was of hardy kind,That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind.He had lived in the world as millions live,Ever more ready to take than give;He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed,And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed;He had driven his bargains and counted his gold,Till upwards of threescore years were told;And his keen blue eye held nothing to showThat feeling had ever been busy below.The old man sighed again, and hidHis keen blue eye beneath its lid;And his wrinkled forehead, bending down,Was knitting itself in a painful frown.“I’ve been looking back,” the old man said,“On every spot where my path has laid,Over every year my brain can trace,To find the happiest time and place.”“And where and when,” cried one by his side,“Have you found the brightest wave in your tide?Come tell me freely, and let me learn,How the spark was struck that yet can burn.Was it when you stood in stalwart strength,With the blood of youth, and felt that at lengthYour stout right arm could win its bread?”The old man quietly shook his head.“Then it must have been when love had come,With a faithful bride to glad your home;Or when the first-born cooed and smiled,And your bosom cradled its own sweet child;Or was it when that first-born joy,Grew up to your hope,—a brave, strong boy,—And promised to fill the world in your stead?”The old man quietly shook his head.“Say, was it then when fortune broughtThe round sum you had frugally sought?Was the year the happiest that beheldThe vision of poverty all dispelled?Or was it when you still had more,And found you could boast a goodly storeWith labor finished and plenty spread?”The old man quietly shook his head.“Ah, no! ah, no! it was longer ago,”The old man muttered,—sadly and low!“It was when I took my lonely wayTo the lonely woods in the month of May.When the Spring light fell as it falleth now,With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough;When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree;O, that was the happiest time for me.“When I used to leap and laugh and shout,Though I never knew what my joy was about;And something seemed to warm my breast,As I sat on a mossy bank to rest.That was the time; when I used to rollOn the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll,And I never could tell why the thought should be,But I fancied the flowers talked to me.“Well I remember climbing to reachA squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech;Well I remember the lilies so sweet,That I toiled with back to the city street;Yes,thatwas the time,—the happiest time,—When I went to the woods in their May-day prime.”And the old man breathed with a longer sigh,And the lid fell closer over his eye.O, who would have thought this hard old manHad room in his heart for such rainbow span?Who would have deemed that wild copse flowersWere tenderly haunting his latest hours?But what did the old man’s spirit tell,In confessing it loved the woods so well?What do we learn from the old man’s sigh,But thatNature and Poetry cannot die?
Anold man sat in his chimney-seat,As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet;And he watched the Spring light as it cameWith wider ray on his window frame.He looked right on to the Eastern sky,But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh,And those who heard it wondered muchWhat Spirit hand made him feel its touch.
Anold man sat in his chimney-seat,
As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet;
And he watched the Spring light as it came
With wider ray on his window frame.
He looked right on to the Eastern sky,
But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh,
And those who heard it wondered much
What Spirit hand made him feel its touch.
For the old man was not one of the fairAnd sensitive plants in earth’s parterre;His heart was among the senseless things,That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee’s wings;It bore no film of delicate pride,No dew of emotion gathered inside;O, that old man’s heart was of hardy kind,That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind.
For the old man was not one of the fair
And sensitive plants in earth’s parterre;
His heart was among the senseless things,
That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee’s wings;
It bore no film of delicate pride,
No dew of emotion gathered inside;
O, that old man’s heart was of hardy kind,
That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind.
He had lived in the world as millions live,Ever more ready to take than give;He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed,And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed;He had driven his bargains and counted his gold,Till upwards of threescore years were told;And his keen blue eye held nothing to showThat feeling had ever been busy below.
He had lived in the world as millions live,
Ever more ready to take than give;
He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed,
And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed;
He had driven his bargains and counted his gold,
Till upwards of threescore years were told;
And his keen blue eye held nothing to show
That feeling had ever been busy below.
The old man sighed again, and hidHis keen blue eye beneath its lid;And his wrinkled forehead, bending down,Was knitting itself in a painful frown.“I’ve been looking back,” the old man said,“On every spot where my path has laid,Over every year my brain can trace,To find the happiest time and place.”
The old man sighed again, and hid
His keen blue eye beneath its lid;
And his wrinkled forehead, bending down,
Was knitting itself in a painful frown.
“I’ve been looking back,” the old man said,
“On every spot where my path has laid,
Over every year my brain can trace,
To find the happiest time and place.”
“And where and when,” cried one by his side,“Have you found the brightest wave in your tide?Come tell me freely, and let me learn,How the spark was struck that yet can burn.Was it when you stood in stalwart strength,With the blood of youth, and felt that at lengthYour stout right arm could win its bread?”The old man quietly shook his head.
“And where and when,” cried one by his side,
“Have you found the brightest wave in your tide?
Come tell me freely, and let me learn,
How the spark was struck that yet can burn.
Was it when you stood in stalwart strength,
With the blood of youth, and felt that at length
Your stout right arm could win its bread?”
The old man quietly shook his head.
“Then it must have been when love had come,With a faithful bride to glad your home;Or when the first-born cooed and smiled,And your bosom cradled its own sweet child;Or was it when that first-born joy,Grew up to your hope,—a brave, strong boy,—And promised to fill the world in your stead?”The old man quietly shook his head.
“Then it must have been when love had come,
With a faithful bride to glad your home;
Or when the first-born cooed and smiled,
And your bosom cradled its own sweet child;
Or was it when that first-born joy,
Grew up to your hope,—a brave, strong boy,—
And promised to fill the world in your stead?”
The old man quietly shook his head.
“Say, was it then when fortune broughtThe round sum you had frugally sought?Was the year the happiest that beheldThe vision of poverty all dispelled?Or was it when you still had more,And found you could boast a goodly storeWith labor finished and plenty spread?”The old man quietly shook his head.
“Say, was it then when fortune brought
The round sum you had frugally sought?
Was the year the happiest that beheld
The vision of poverty all dispelled?
Or was it when you still had more,
And found you could boast a goodly store
With labor finished and plenty spread?”
The old man quietly shook his head.
“Ah, no! ah, no! it was longer ago,”The old man muttered,—sadly and low!“It was when I took my lonely wayTo the lonely woods in the month of May.When the Spring light fell as it falleth now,With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough;When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree;O, that was the happiest time for me.
“Ah, no! ah, no! it was longer ago,”
The old man muttered,—sadly and low!
“It was when I took my lonely way
To the lonely woods in the month of May.
When the Spring light fell as it falleth now,
With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough;
When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree;
O, that was the happiest time for me.
“When I used to leap and laugh and shout,Though I never knew what my joy was about;And something seemed to warm my breast,As I sat on a mossy bank to rest.That was the time; when I used to rollOn the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll,And I never could tell why the thought should be,But I fancied the flowers talked to me.
“When I used to leap and laugh and shout,
Though I never knew what my joy was about;
And something seemed to warm my breast,
As I sat on a mossy bank to rest.
That was the time; when I used to roll
On the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll,
And I never could tell why the thought should be,
But I fancied the flowers talked to me.
“Well I remember climbing to reachA squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech;Well I remember the lilies so sweet,That I toiled with back to the city street;Yes,thatwas the time,—the happiest time,—When I went to the woods in their May-day prime.”And the old man breathed with a longer sigh,And the lid fell closer over his eye.
“Well I remember climbing to reach
A squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech;
Well I remember the lilies so sweet,
That I toiled with back to the city street;
Yes,thatwas the time,—the happiest time,—
When I went to the woods in their May-day prime.”
And the old man breathed with a longer sigh,
And the lid fell closer over his eye.
O, who would have thought this hard old manHad room in his heart for such rainbow span?Who would have deemed that wild copse flowersWere tenderly haunting his latest hours?But what did the old man’s spirit tell,In confessing it loved the woods so well?What do we learn from the old man’s sigh,But thatNature and Poetry cannot die?
O, who would have thought this hard old man
Had room in his heart for such rainbow span?
Who would have deemed that wild copse flowers
Were tenderly haunting his latest hours?
But what did the old man’s spirit tell,
In confessing it loved the woods so well?
What do we learn from the old man’s sigh,
But thatNature and Poetry cannot die?