Eighth Grade

And for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons' straddling feet
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood.

What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north wind raved?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.
O Time and Change!---with hair as gray
As was my y sire 's that winter day,
How strange it seems with so much gone
Of life and love, to still live on!
Ah brother! only I and
Are left of all that circle now---
The dear home faces whereupon
That fitful firelight paled and shone.
Henceforward, listen as we will
The voices of that hearth are still;
Look where we may, the wide earth o’er,
Those lighted faces smile no more.
We tread the paths their feet have worn,
We sit beneath their orchard trees,
We hear, like them, the hum of bees
And rustle of the bladed corn;
We turn the pages that they read
Their written words we linger o’er,
But in the sun they cast no shade,
No voice is heard, no sign is made,
No step is on the conscious floor!
Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust
(Since He who knows our need is just)
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must.

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