THE DREAM OF ALL THE SPRINGFIELD WRITERS
I’ll haunt this town, though gone the maids and men,
The darling few, my friends and loves today.
My ghost returns, bearing a great sword-pen
When far off children of their children play.
That pen will drip with moonlight and with fire.
I’ll write upon the church-doors and the walls.
And reading there, young hearts shall leap the higher
Though drunk already with their own love-calls.
Still led of love and arm in arm, strange gold
Shall find in tracing the far-speeding track
The dauntless war-cries that my sword-pen bold
Shall carve on terraces and tree-trunks black—
On tree-trunks black beneath the blossoms white:—
Just as the phosphorent merman, bound for home
Jewels his fire-path in the tides at night
While hurrying sea-babes follow through the foam.
And in December when the leaves are dead
And the first snow has carpeted the street
While young cheeks flush a healthful Christmas red
And young eyes glisten with youth’s fervor sweet—
My pen shall cut in winter’s snowy floor
Cries that in channelled glory leap and shine,
My Village Gospel, living evermore
Amid rejoicing, loyal friends of mine.