In reflective mood by the wall I wander; The hoary stones have set my heart astir; My thoughts take shape and move beside me in the guise Of the stern men who built the wall in early olden days. One by one the melancholy phantoms go stepping from me, And I follow them in and out among the stones. I think of the days long gone, Flown like birds beyond the ramparts of the world. The patient, sturdy men who piled the stones Have vanished, like the days, beyond the bounds Of earth and mortal things. From their humble, steadfast lives has sprung the greatness of my nation. I am bone of their bone, breath of their breath, Their courage is in my soul. The wall is an Iliad of granite: it chants to me Of pilgrims of the perilous deep, Of fearless journeyings and old forgotten things. The blood of grim ancestors warms the fingers That trace the letters of their story; My pulses beat in unison with pulses that are stilled; The fire of their zeal inspires me In my struggle with darkness and pain. These embossed books, unobliterated by the tears and laughter of Time, Are signed with the vital hands of undaunted men. I love these monoliths, so crudely imprinted With their stalwart, cleanly, frugal lives. From my seat among the stones I stretch my hand and touch My friend the elm, urnlike, lithesome, tall. Far above the reach of my exploring fingers Birds are singing and winging joyously Through leafy billows of green. The elm-tree’s song is wondrous sweet; The words are the ancientest language of trees-- They tell of how earth and air and light Are wrought anew to beauty and to fruitfulness. I feel the glad stirrings under her rough bark; Her living sap mounts up to bring forth leaves; Her great limbs thrill beneath the wand of spring.