How well my eyes remember the dim path! My homing heart no happier playground hath. I need not close my lids but it appears Through the bewilderment of forty years To tempt my feet, my childish feet, between Its leafy walls, beneath its arching green; Fairer than dream of sleep, than Hope more fair Leading to dreamless sleep her sister Care. There grew two fellow limes, two rising trees, Shadowing the lawn, the summer haunt of bees, Whose stems, engraved with many a russet scar From the spear-hurlings of our mimic war, Pillar'd the portico to that wide walk, A mossy terrace of the native chalk Fashion'd, that led thro' the dark shades around Straight to the wooden temple on the mound. There live the memories of my early days, There still with childish heart my spirit plays; Yea, terror-stricken by the fiend despair When she hath fled me, I have found her there; And there 'tis ever noon, and glad suns bring Alternate days of summer and of spring, With childish thought, and childish faces bright, And all unknown save but the hour's delight. High on the mound the ivied arbour stood, A dome of straw upheld on rustic wood: Hidden in fern the steps of the ascent, Whereby unto the southern front we went, And from the dark plantation climbing free, Over a valley look'd out on the sea. That sea is ever bright and blue, the sky Serene and blue, and ever white ships lie High on the horizon steadfast in full sail, Or nearer in the roads pass within hail, Of naked brigs and barques that windbound ride At their taut cables heading to the tide. There many an hour I have sat to watch; nay, now The brazen disk is cold against my brow, And in my sight a circle of the sea Enlarged to swiftness, where the salt waves flee, And ships in stately motion pass so near That what I see is speaking to my ear: I hear the waves dash and the tackle strain, The canvas flap, the rattle of the chain That runs out thro' the hawse, the clank of the winch Winding the rusty cable inch by inch, Till half I wonder if they have no care, Those sailors, that my glass is brought to bear On all their doings, if I vex them not On every petty task of their rough lot Prying and spying, searching every craft From painted truck to gunnel, fore and aft,-- Thro' idle Sundays as I have watch'd them lean Long hours upon the rail, or neath its screen Prone on the deck to lie outstretch'd at length, Sunk in renewal of their wearied strength.