When but a child my eyes would oft forsake The blurring page, and through the window seek Like an escaping bird, the wonderland Of dreams, till my instructor, grave, enquired “Wool gathering again?” So mid the halls Of classic learning out into the world Of bruise and bitterness but softening all As summer haze dissolves the jagged peaks And makes the deserts bloom - my fancy blithe, Drinking the waters of eternal youth, Has ventured many a lordly enterprise Wool gathering down the years. Now older grown Calm in the tranqil gloaming of my life I dwell apart, the while my mellow lamp With tapestry of shadow drapes the wall And e’en the crickets shrilling greets my ear Like pipes of Arcady. There friends long gone Cluster about with gladsomeness, and scenes From recollection gleaned or fancy limned Expand my chamber to horizons vast Till pensively I muse “Wool gathering still?” Bless all kind fairies of fond Memory’s brood, Or those which grace Imaginations court, For treasures such as these. Jason of old, Who led his argonauts through seas of blood Seeking the golden fleece, has set the course For dreamers through all ages yet to come. O Hero legended, thine be the goal My yearning eyes would glimpse. What cloudland slopes Feed those immortal sheep whose fleeces bright Are woven into dreams are ever hid Beyond my ken. But the great quest is mine To glorify the drabness of the years Life’s sterile day by day. One need not gain The fabled hoard that marks the rainbow’s end To feel, beholding that resplendent arch A link with faery land. Wool gathering - yes But rather say the guerdon wisdom brings, The magic touch that gilds the commonplace With beauty and delight, the lustrous threads In life’s rough fabric drawn from fleece of gold. THE LONE LILAC Only a cellar broken Down to a dimpled mound, Of the olden time a token In the brier entangled ground. And a lonely lilac vagrant As a sunbeam lost in gloom, Close by like a garland fragrant At the door of a crumbling tomb. Full many a tree appearing Has ploughed through the sodden loam Where once was a fertile clearing Protecting a friendly home. And sweet as the perfume welling From the lilac over the way, Was life in that quaint old dwelling In that long forgotten day. Under the eaves, enfolded It mothered its little brood; But the sills long since have molded To dust in that solitude. Now through the locusts treading (A grove from a single one) Like the virile banyan spreading Neath the burning Indian sun.