"I doubt if I shall ever have the time, Jane Wayland; And I dare say all this moonlight lying round us might as well Fall for nothing on the shards of broken urns that are forgotten, As on two that have no longer much of anything to tell." Stafford's Cabin Once there was a cabin here, and once there was a man; And something happened here before my memory began. Time has made the two of them the fuel of one flame And all we have of them is now a legend and a name. All I have to say is what an old man said to me, And that would seem to be as much as there will ever be. "Fifty years ago it was we found it where it sat."-- And forty years ago it was old Archibald said that. "An apple tree that's yet alive saw something, I suppose, Of what it was that happened there, and what no mortal knows. Some one on the mountain heard far off a master shriek, And then there was a light that showed the way for men to seek. "We found it in the morning with an iron bar behind, And there were chains around it; but no search could ever find, Either in the ashes that were left, or anywhere, A sign to tell of who or what had been with Stafford there. "Stafford was a likely man with ideas of his own-- Though I could never like the kind that likes to live alone; And when you met, you found his eyes were always on your shoes, As if they did the talking when he asked you for the news. "That's all, my son. Were I to talk for half a hundred years I'd never clear away from there the cloud that never clears. We buried what was left of it,--the bar, too, and the chains; And only for the apple tree there's nothing that remains." Forty years ago it was I heard the old man say, "That's all, my son."--And here again I find the place to-day, Deserted and told only by the tree that knows the most, And overgrown with golden-rod as if there were no ghost. Hillcrest (To Mrs. Edward MacDowell) No sound of any storm that shakes Old island walls with older seas Comes here where now September makes An island in a sea of trees. Between the sunlight and the shade A man may learn till he forgets The roaring of a world remade, And all his ruins and regrets; And if he still remembers here Poor fights he may have won or lost,-- If he be ridden with the fear Of what some other fight may cost,-- If, eager to confuse too soon, What he has known with what may be, He reads a planet out of tune For cause of his jarred harmony,-- If here he venture to unroll His index of adagios, And he be given to console Humanity with what he knows,-- He may by contemplation learn A little more than what he knew, And even see great oaks return To acorns out of which they grew.