The Old Lane

An old, lost lane; where can it lead?     To stony pastures, where the weed     Purples its plume, or sails its seed:     And from one knoll, the vetch makes green,     Trailing its glimmering ribbon on,     Under deep boughs, a creek is seen,     Flecked with the silver of the dawn.     An old, green lane; where can it go?     Into the valley-land below,     Where red the wilding lilies blow:     Where, under willows, shadowy grey,     The blue-crane wades, the heron glides;     And in each pool the minnows sway,     Twinkling their slim and silvery sides.     An old, railed lane; where does it end?     Beyond the log-bridge at the bend,     Towards which our young feet used to wend:     Where, 'neath a dappled sycamore,     The old mill thrashed its foaming wheel,     And, smiling, at its corn-strewn door     The miller leant all white with meal.     An old, wild lane; I know it well:     The creek, the bridge across the dell:     The old house on the orchard-swell:     The pine-board porch above the creek,     Where oft we used to sit and dream,     Two children, fair of hair and cheek,     Dropping our flowers in the stream.     An old, old lane; I follow it     In fancy; and, where branches knit,     Behold a boy and girl who sit     Beside the mill-dam near the mill;     Or in a flat-boat, old and worn,     Oar lilyward. I see them still     Her dress is rent, his trousers torn.     An old, lost lane. Come, let us find,     As here I have it in my mind,     As boyhood left it far behind!     Yes; let us follow it again,     And meet her, wild of foot and hair,     The tomboy, sweet as sun and rain,     Whom once we worshipped to despair.