There by the window in the old house Perched on the bluff, overlooking miles of valley, My days of labor closed, sitting out life’s decline, Day by day did I look in my memory, As one who gazes in an enchantress’ crystal globe, And I saw the figures of the past As if in a pageant glassed by a shining dream, Move through the incredible sphere of time. And I saw a man arise from the soil like a fabled giant And throw himself over a deathless destiny, Master of great armies, head of the republic, Bringing together into a dithyramb of recreative song The epic hopes of a people; At the same time Vulcan of sovereign fires, Where imperishable shields and swords were beaten out From spirits tempered in heaven. Look in the crystal! See how he hastens on To the place where his path comes up to the path Of a child of Plutarch and Shakespeare. O Lincoln, actor indeed, playing well your part And Booth, who strode in a mimic play within the play, Often and often I saw you, As the cawing crows winged their way to the wood Over my house—top at solemn sunsets, There by my window, Alone. Rebecca Wasson Spring and Summer, Fall and Winter and Spring, After each other drifting, past my window drifting! And I lay so many years watching them drift and counting The years till a terror came in my heart at times, With the feeling that I had become eternal; at last My hundredth year was reached! And still I lay Hearing the tick of the clock, and the low of cattle And the scream of a jay flying through falling leaves! Day after day alone in a room of the house Of a daughter-in-law stricken with age and gray. And by night, or looking out of the window by day My thought ran back, it seemed, through infinite time To North Carolina and all my girlhood days, And John, my John, away to the war with the British, And all the children, the deaths, and all the sorrows. And that stretch of years like a prairie in Illinois Through which great figures passed like hurrying horsemen, Washington, Jefferson, Jackson, Webster, Clay. O beautiful young republic for whom my John and I Gave all of our strength and love! And O my John! Why, when I lay so helpless in bed for years, Praying for you to come, was your coming delayed? Seeing that with a cry of rapture, like that I uttered When you found me in old Virginia after the war, I cried when I beheld you there by the bed, As the sun stood low in the west growing smaller and fainter In the light of your face! Rutherford McDowell