And the silver thread of the rivulet
Tangled and knotted with fern and sedge. 
And the mill-pond like a diamond set
In the streamlet’s emerald edge;
And over the stream on the gradual hill,
Its headstones glimmering palely white,
Is the graveyard quiet and still. 
I wade through its grasses rank and deep,
Past slanting marbles mossy and dim,
Carven with lines from some old hymn,
To one where my mother used to lean
On Sunday noons and weep. 
That tall white shape I looked upon
With a mysterious dread,
Linking unto the senseless stone
The image of the dead—­
The father I never had seen;
I remember on dark nights of storm,
When our parlor was bright and warm,
I would turn away from its glowing light,
And look far out in the churchyard dim,
And with infinite pity think of him
Shut out alone in the dismal night.

And the ruined mill by the waterfall,
I see again its crumbling wall,
And I hear the water’s song. 
It all comes back to me—­
Its song comes back to me,
Floating out like a spirit’s call
The drowsy air along;
Blending forever with my name
Wonderful prophecies, dreamy talk,
Of future paths when I should walk
Crowned with manhood, and honor, and fame.

I shut my eyes and the rich perfume
Of the tropical lily fills the room
From its censer of frosted snow;
But it seems to float to me through the night
From those apple-blossoms red and white
That starred the orchard’s fragrant gloom;
Those old boughs hanging low,
Where my sister’s swing swayed to and fro
Through the scented aisles of the air;
While her merry voice and her laugh rung out
Like a bird’s, to answer my brother’s shout,
As he shook the boughs o’er her curly head,
Till the blossoms fell in a rosy rain
On her neck and her shining hair. 
Oh, little Belle! 
Oh, little sister, I loved so well;
It seems to me almost as if she died
In that lost time so gay and fair,
And was buried in childhood’s sunny plain;
And she who walks the street to-day,
Or in gilded carriage sweeps through the town
Staring her humbler sisters down,
With her jewels gleaming like lucent flame,
Proud of her grandeur and fine array,
Is only a stranger, who bears her name.

And the little boy who played with me,
Hunting birds’-nests in sheltered nooks,
Trudging at nightfall after the cows,
Exploring the barn-loft, fording the brooks,
Ending, in school-time, puzzled brows
Over the same small lesson books;
Who knelt by my side in the twilight dim,
Praying “the Lord our souls to keep,”
Then on the same pillow fell asleep,
Hushed by our mother’s evening hymn;
Whose heart and mine kept such perfect time,
Such loving cadence, such tender rhyme,
Blent in child grief, and perfected in glee—­
We meet on the street and we clasp the hand,
And our names on charitable papers stand
Side by side, and we go and bow
Our two gray heads with prayer and vow,
In the same grand church, and hasty word
Of anger, has never our bosoms stirred. 
Yet a whole wide world is between us now;
How broad and deep does the gulf appear
Between the hearts that were so near!