And gazes at his walls before he goes,
  Then forward sets his steps—­so I set mine
  To join a band whose purpose was to find
  A world of action; but my heart was cold,
  My mind supine.  Yet I remained with them,
  And answered to the roll called Honor, Fame! 
  Where were my memories and my ardent prayers? 
  The years stood far behind, their columns graved
  Deep with the adage which youth names No More. 
  Like one who enters some old storied hall,
  And down its vista suddenly beholds
  A banner waving out its old device
  Of victory—­so suddenly I felt
  My later life a void.  I was recalled! 
  My prayers were answered, and behold me here;
  Within the pale of all my loss and gain,
  The dear, familiar seasons as they pass,
  The seal of memory on every place,
  Bestow the restoration which I sought. 
  At peace, I know, as those who suffer know,
  There is no secret we can wrest at will
  From Nature.  Time must bring and share with her
  The gift of resignation, cure for grief,
  And cast upon our ways this ray of hope—­
  That I, the lost, and Nature may be one.

UNRETURNING.

  Now all the flowers that ornament the grass,
  Wherever meadows are and placid brooks,
  Must fall—­the “glory of the grass” must fall. 
  Year after year I see them sprout and spread—­
  The golden, glossy, tossing buttercups,
  The tall, straight daisies and red clover globes,
  The swinging bellwort and the blue-eyed bent,
  With nameless plants as perfect in their hues—­
  Perfect in root and branch, their plan of life,
  As if the intention of a soul were there: 
  I see them flourish as I see them fall! 
    But he, who once was growing with the grass,
  And blooming with the flowers, my little son,
  Fell, withered—­dead, nor has revived again! 
  Perfect and lovely, needful to my sight,
  Why comes he not to ornament my days? 
  The barren fields forget their barrenness,
  The soulless earth mates with these soulless things,
  Why should I not obtain my recompense? 
  The budding spring should bring, or summer’s prime,
  At least a vision of the vanished child,
  And let his heart commune with mine again,
  Though in a dream—­his life was but a dream;
  Then might I wait with patient cheerfulness,
  That cheerfulness which keeps one’s tears unshed,
  And blinds the eyes with pain—­the passage slow
  Of other seasons, and be still and cold
  As the earth is when shrouded in the snow,
  Or passive, like it, when the boughs are stripped
  In autumn, and the leaves roll everywhere. 
    And he should go again; for winter’s snows,
  And autumn’s melancholy voice, in winds,
  In waters, and in woods, belong to me,
  To me—­a faded soul; for, as I said,
  The sense of all his beauty, sweetness,