And hope some blind, bright eye will one day spy you-- Some boy with too much love and empty pockets May read with quickening pulse your brief inscription, Cut in his mother-language, half forgotten, Four words which mean that life is sweet together; Rush in and count his coins upon the table, (A cup his own as if his heart had made it!) And bear you off to one who hopes as he does. So, one day, may the wish, for you, be granted. They will not know, these two, the names you cover; Mine and another, razed by violence from you, Nor his, worn down by time, the first possessor’s-- Who had his story, which you never told me. RECOGNITION The old volcanic mountains That slope up from the sea-- They dream and dream a thousand years And watch what-is-to-be. What gladness shines upon them When, white as white sea-foam, To the old, old ports of Beauty A new sail comes home! GOING HOME (BURLINGTON ROUTE) How smoothly the trains run beyond the Missouri; Even in my sleep I know when I have crossed the river. The wheels turn as if they were glad to go; The sharp curves and windings left behind, The roadway wide open, (_The crooked straight_ _And the rough places plain._) They run smoothly, they run softly, too. There is not noise enough to trouble the lightest sleeper. Nor jolting to wake the weary-hearted. I open my window and let the air blow in, The air of morning, That smells of grass and earth-- Earth, the grain-giver. How smoothly the trains run beyond the Missouri; Even in my sleep I know when I have crossed the river. The wheels turn as if they were glad to go; They run like running water, Like Youth, running away ... They spin bright along the bright rails, Singing and humming, Singing and humming. They run remembering, They run rejoicing, As if they, too, were going home.