Poems About Nostalgia

Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all The friends, so link'd together,I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed!Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birthday,--The tree is living yet!

I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers thenThat is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow.

I remember, I rememberThe fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from HeavenThan when I was a boy.

And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: ‘A Boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free;And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill;The sunrise gun with its hollow roar,The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thunder’d o’er the tide!And the dead sea-captains, as they layIn their graves o’erlooking the tranquil bay Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering’s woods;And the friendships old and the early lovesCome back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighbourhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the schoolboy’s brain;The song and the silence in the heart,That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die;There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town;But the native air is pure and sweet,And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

And Deering’s woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost painMy heart goes back to wander there,And among the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

My listening angel heard the prayer,And, calmly smiling, said,"If I but touch thy silvered hair,Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy trackTo bid thee fondly stay,While the swift seasons hurry backTo find the wished-for day?"

"Ah, truest soul of womankind!Without thee what were life?One bliss I cannot leave behind:I'll take--my--precious--wife!"

The angel took a sapphire penAnd wrote in rainbow dew,The man would be a boy again,And be a husband, too!

"And is there nothing yet unsaid,Before the change appears?Remember, all their gifts have fledWith those dissolving years."

"Why, yes;" for memory would recallMy fond paternal joys;"I could not bear to leave them all--I'll take--my--girl--and--boys."

The smiling angel dropped his pen,--"Why, this will never do;The man would be a boy again,And be a father, too!"

And so I laughed,--my laughter wokeThe household with its noise,--And wrote my dream, when morning broke,To please the gray-haired boys.

I have grown weary of dust and decay,--Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;Weary of sowing for others to reap;--Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!Many a summer the grass has grown green,Blossomed and faded, our faces between:Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,Long I to-night for your presence again.Come from the silence so long and so deep;--Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,No love like mother-love ever has shone;No other worship abides and endures,--Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours:None like a mother can charm away painFrom the sick soul and the world-weary brain.Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;--Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold.Fall on your shoulders again as of old;Let it drop over my forehead to-night,Shading my faint eyes away from the light;For with its sunny-edged shadows once moreHaply will throng the sweet visions of yore;Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;--Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been longSince I last listened your lullaby song:Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seemWomanhood's years have been only a dream.Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,With your light lashes just sweeping my face,Never hereafter to wake or to weep;--Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

And a thousand recollectionsWeave their air-threads into woof,As I listen to the patterOf the rain upon the roof.

Now in memory comes my mother,As she used, in years agone,To regard the darling dreamersEre she left them till the dawn;And I feel her fond look on me,As I list to this refrainWhich is played upon the shinglesBy the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister,With her wings and waving hair,And her star-eyed cherub brother--A serene angelic pair--Glide around my wakeful pillow,With their praise or mild reproof,As I listen to the murmurOf the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes, to thrill meWith her eyes' delicious blue;And I mind not, musing on her,That her heart was all untrue:I remember but to love herWith a passion kin to pain,And my heart's quick pulses vibrateTo the patter of the rain.

Art hath naught of tone or cadenceThat can work with such a spellIn the soul's mysterious fountains,Whence the tears of rapture well,As that melody of nature,That subdued, subduing strainWhich is played upon the shinglesBy the patter of the rain.

Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away,Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun;For you I pawned my watch how many a day,In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

And see my little Jessy, first of all;She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes:Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawlAcross the narrow casement, curtain-wise;Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,And when did woman look the worse in none?I have heard since who paid for many a gown,In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

One jolly evening, when my friends and IMade happy music with our songs and cheers,A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,And distant cannon opened on our ears:We rise,--we join in the triumphant strain,--Napoleon conquers--Austerlitz is won--Tyrants shall never tread us down again,In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Let us begone--the place is sad and strange--How far, far off, these happy times appear;All that I have to live I'd gladly changeFor one such month as I have wasted here--To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,From founts of hope that never will outrun,And drink all life's quintessence in an hour,Give me the days when I was twenty-one!

And afterward, when I am dead,Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread,Across my funeral-stone.

This name, whoever chance to call,Perhaps your smile may win:Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fallOver mine eyes and feel withalThe sudden tears within.

Is there a leaf, that greenly growsWhere summer meadows bloom,But gathereth the winter snows,And changeth to the hue of those,If lasting till they come?

Is there a word, or jest, or game,But time incrusteth roundWith sad associate thoughts the same?And so to me my very nameAssumes a mournful sound.

My brother gave that name to meWhen we were children twain,When names acquired baptismallyWere hard to utter, as to seeThat life had any pain.

No shade was on us then, save oneOf chestnuts from the hill;And through the word our laugh did runAs part thereof: the mirth being done,He calls me by it still.

Nay, do not smile! I hear in itWhat none of you can hear,--The talk upon the willow seat,The bird and wind that did repeatAround, our human cheer.

I hear the birthday's noisy blissMy sisters' woodland glee,My father's praise I did not missWhen stooping down, he cared to kissThe poet at his knee,--

And voices which, to name me, ayeTheir tenderest tones were keeping,--To some I nevermore can sayAn answer till God wipes awayIn heaven these drops of weeping.

My name to me a sadness wears:No murmurs cross my mind--Now God be thanked for these thick tears,Which show, of those departed years,Sweet memories left behind.

Now God be thanked for years enwroughtWith love which softens yet:Now God be thanked for every thoughtWhich is so tender it has caughtEarth's guerdon of regret.

Earth saddens, never shall removeAffections purely given;And e'en that mortal grief shall proveThe immortality of love,And heighten it with Heaven.

Long ago!

The magical moonlight thenSteeped every bough and cone;The roar of the brook in the glenCame dim from the distance blown;The wind through its glooms sang low,And it swayed to and fro,With delight as it stood,In the wonderful wood,Long ago!

O my life, have we not had seasonsThat only said, Live and rejoice?That asked not for causes and reasons,But made us all feeling and voice?When we went with the winds in their blowing,When Nature and we were peers,And we seemed to share in the flowingOf the inexhaustible years?Have we not from the earth drawn juicesToo fine for earth's sordid uses?Have I heard, have I seenAll I feel, all I know?Doth my heart overween?Or could it have beenLong ago?

Sometimes a breath floats by me,An odor from Dreamland sent,That makes the ghost seem nigh meOf a splendor that came and went,Of a life lived somewhere, I know notIn what diviner sphere,Of memories that stay not and go not,Like music heard once by an earThat cannot forget or reclaim it,A something so shy, it would shame itTo make it a show,A something too vague, could I name it,For others to know,As if I had lived it or dreamed it,As if I had acted or schemed it,Long ago!

And yet, could I live it over,This life that stirs in my brain,Could I be both maiden and lover,Moon and tide, bee and clover,As I seem to have been, once again,Could I but speak it and show it,This pleasure more sharp than pain,That baffles and lures me so,The world should once more have a poet,Such as it hadIn the ages glad,Long ago!

It made me love myself as I leaped to caressMy shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his tollFrom the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy daysWhen the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways,How pleasant was the journey down the old dusty lane,Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so planeYou could tell by the dent of the heel and the soleThey was lots o' fun on hand at the old swimmin'-hole.But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow rollLike the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.

Thare the bulrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;And it mottled the worter with amber and goldTel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered byLike the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controleAs it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spotWhare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be--But never again will theyr shade shelter me!And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.

The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,The rafters have tumbled in,And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gazeHas followed the olden din.

Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt.At the edge of the pathless wood,And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,Which nigh by the doorstep stood?The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,The tree you would seek for in vain;And where once the lords of the forest wavedAre grass and the golden grain.

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,With the master so cruel and grim,And the shaded nook in the running brookWhere the children went to swim?Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,The spring of the brook is dry,And of all the boys who were schoolmates thenThere are only you and I.

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,They have changed from the old to the new;But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth,There never was change in you.Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt,Since first we were friends--yet I hailYour presence a blessing, your friendship a truth,Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale.

And, to return, as many more.Had but the vintage plenteous grown--But, ah! the grape withheld its store.I shall not look on Carcassonne!

"They tell me every day is thereNot more or less than Sunday gay;In shining robes and garments fairThe people walk upon their way.One gazes there on castle wallsAs grand as those of Babylon,A bishop and two generals!What joy to dwell in Carcassonne!

"The vicar's right: he says that weAre ever wayward, weak, and blind;He tells us in his homilyAmbition ruins all mankind;Yet could I there two days have spent,While still the autumn sweetly shone,Ah, me! I might have died contentWhen I had looked on Carcassonne.

"Thy pardon, Father, I beseech,In this my prayer if I offend;One something sees beyond his reachFrom childhood to his journey's end.My wife, our little boy, Aignan,Have travelled even to Narbonne;My grandchild has seen Perpignan;And I--have not seen Carcassonne!"

So crooned, one day, close by Limoux,A peasant, double-bent with age."Rise up, my friend," said I; "with youI'll go upon this pilgrimage."We left, next morning, his abode,But (Heaven forgive him!) half-way onThe old man died upon the road.He never gazed on Carcassonne.

'Tis but a wraith of love; yet I linger(Thus passion errs),Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger--Once it was hers.

Nothing has changed since her spirit departed,Here, in this roomSave I, who, weary, and half broken-hearted,Sit in the gloom.Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes,Dreary and cold;Over the floor the red fire-light flashesJust as of old.

Just as of old--but the embers are scattered,Whose ruddy blazeFlashed o'er the floor where the fairy feet patteredIn other days!Then, her dear voice, like a silver chime ringing,Melted away;Often these walls have re-echoed her singing,Now hushed for aye!

Why should love bring naught but sorrow, I wonder?Everything dies!Time and death, sooner or later, must sunderHoliest ties.Years have rolled by; I am wiser and older--Wiser, but yetNot till my heart and its feelings grow colder,Can I forget.

So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber,Sit I alone;And, as I gaze in the coals, I rememberDays long agone!

I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well--The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!Not a full blushing goblet would tempt me to leave it,The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.And now, far removed from the loved habitation,The tear of regret will intrusively swell,As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well--The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!