A Song

Bring me the juice of the honey fruit,
The large translucent, amber-hued,
Rare grapes of southern isles, to suit
The luxury that fills my mood.
And bring me only such as grew
Where rarest maidens tend the bowers,
And only fed by rain and dew
Which first had bathed a bank of flowers.
They must have hung on spicy trees
In airs of far, enchanted vales,
And all night heard the ecstasies
Of noble-throated nightingales:
So that the virtues which belong
To flowers may therein tasted be,
And that which hath been thrill'd with song
May give a thrill of song to me.
For I wou'd wake that string for thee
Which hath too long in silence hung,
And sweeter than all else should be
The song which in thy praise is sung.
Ancient road, that wind'st deserted
Through the level of the vale,
Sweeping toward the crowded market
Like a stream without a sail;
Standing by thee, I look backward,
And, as in the light of dreams,
See the years descend and vanish
Like thy whitely-tented teams.
Here I stroll along the village
As in youth's departed morn;
But I miss the crowded coaches,
And the driver's bugle-horn —
Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters
Filling buckets at the wells,
With their wains from Conestoga,
And their orchestras of bells.
To the mossy wayside tavern
Comes the noisy throng no more;
And the faded sign, complaining,
Swings unnoticed at the door;
While the old, decrepit tollman,
Waiting for the few who pass,
Reads the melancholy story
In the thickly-springing grass.
Ancient highway, thou art vanquish'd;
The usurper of the vale
Rolls in fiery, iron rattle,
Exultations on the gale.
Thou art vanquish'd and neglected;
But the good which thou hast done,
Though by man it be forgotten,
Shall be deathless as the sun.
Though neglected, gray, and grassy,
Still I pray that my decline
Mav be through as vernal valleys
And as blest a calm as thine.