And I who gaze On the dark border here, Drawn like a ribbon round the pasture-ways, Embroidered with the glory of the year,-- Do I not like the wall? Lo, I remember how in days of old My grandsire toiled with weariness and pain To dig the cumbering boulders from the mould; Piled them in ordered rows again, Fitting them firm and fast, A monument to last Long after his own harried day was past. He cleared the rocky soil for corn and grain By which his children throve To carry on the race. We live by his life-giving. I see each stone, rough like his granite face,-- Uncompromising, stern, no slave to love, Dowered with little grace, Grim with the hard, unjoyful task of living, But strong to stand the wrath of storm and time, And bolts that heaven let fall. Built of a patriot's prime,-- I love the wall! ABBIE FARWELL BROWN BOULDERS There is a look of wisdom in yon stones, Great boulders basking in the noonday heat, Their grimness lightened by a fringe of sweet Fresh fern or moss or green-gray lichen tones. While through the glade an insect army drones And birds from neighboring boughs their notes repeat, These patriarchs, drowsing as in bliss complete, Rest on the flowery sward their tranquil bones. A thousand or ten thousand years ago, Shattered by frost, or by the torrent's might, These boulders hurtled from some toppling height And crashed through forests to the plain below. Now, reconciled to Nature's gentler mood, They lie on lowly earth and find it good. CHARLES WHARTON STORK AFTERNOON ON A HILL I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun; I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one; I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes; Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise; And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down. EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE GOLDEN-ROD O Rod of gold! O swaying sceptre of the year-- Now frost and cold Show Winter near, And shivering leaves grow brown and sere. The bleak hillside, And marshy waste of yellow reeds, And meadows wide Where frosted weeds Shake on the damp wind light-winged seeds, Are decked with thee,-- The lingering Summer's latest grace, And sovereignty. Each wind-swept space Waves thy red gold in Winter's face-- He strives each star, In stormy pride to lay full low; But when thy bar Resists his blow, Will crown thee with a puff of snow! MARGARET DELAND THE PATH THAT LEADS TO NOWHERE