A Song Of Long Ago.

    A song of Long Ago:
    Sing it lightly - sing it low -
    Sing it softly - like the lisping of the lips we used to know
    When our baby-laughter spilled
    From the glad hearts ever filled
    With music blithe as robin ever trilled!

    Let the fragrant summer-breeze,
    And the leaves of locust-trees,
    And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees,
    All palpitate with glee,
    Till the happy harmony
    Brings back each childish joy to you and me.

    Let the eyes of fancy turn
    Where the tumbled pippins burn
    Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern, -
    There let the old path wind
    In and out and on behind
    The cider-press that chuckles as we grind.

    Blend in the song the moan
    Of the dove that grieves alone,
    And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble's drowsy drone;
    And the low of cows that call
    Through the pasture-bars when all
    The landscape fades away at evenfall.

    Then, far away and clear,
    Through the dusky atmosphere,
    Let the wailing of the kildee be the only sound we hear:
    O sad and sweet and low
    As the memory may know
    Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago!

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

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English

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The Song Of Yesterday

I

But yesterday
I looked away
O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay
In golden blots
Inlaid with spots
Of shade and wild forget-me-nots.

My head was fair
With flaxen hair,
And fragrant breezes, faint and rare,
And warm with drouth
From out the south,
Blew all my curls across my mouth.

And, cool and sweet,
My naked feet
Found dewy pathways through the wheat;
And out again
Where, down the lane,
The dust was dimpled with the rain.


II

But yesterday: -
Adream, astray,
From morning's red to evening's gray,
O'er dales and hills
Of daffodils
And lorn sweet-fluting whippoorwills.

I knew nor cares
Nor tears nor prayers -
A mortal god, crowned unawares
With sunset - a...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Orchard Lands Of Long Ago

The orchard lands of Long Ago!
O drowsy winds, awake, and blow
The snowy blossoms back to me,
And all the buds that used to be!
Blow back along the grassy ways
Of truant feet, and lift the haze
Of happy summer from the trees
That trail their tresses in the seas
Of grain that float and overflow
The orchard lands of Long Ago!

Blow back the melody that slips
In lazy laughter from the lips
That marvel much if any kiss
Is sweeter than the apple's is.
Blow back the twitter of the birds -
The lisp, the titter, and the words
Of merriment that found the shine
Of summer-time a glorious wine
That drenched the leaves that loved it so,
In orchard lands of Long Ago!

O memory! alight and sing
Where rosy-bellied pippins cling,
And gol...

James Whitcomb Riley

A Dream Of Long Ago

Lying listless in the mosses
Underneath a tree that tosses
Flakes of sunshine, and embosses
    Its green shadow with the snow -
Drowsy-eyed, I sink in slumber
Born of fancies without number -
Tangled fancies that encumber
    Me with dreams of long ago.

Ripples of the river singing;
And the water-lilies swinging
Bells of Parian, and ringing
    Peals of perfume faint and fine,
While old forms and fairy faces
Leap from out their hiding-places
In the past, with glad embraces
    Fraught with kisses sweet as wine.

Willows dip their slender fingers
O'er the little fisher's stringers,
While he baits his hook and lingers
    Till the shadows gather dim;
And afar off comes a calling
Like the sounds of water falling,
With the...

James Whitcomb Riley

Autumn.

    As a harvester, at dusk,
    Faring down some woody trail
    Leading homeward through the musk
    Of may-apple and pawpaw,
    Hazel-bush, and spice and haw, -
    So comes Autumn, swart and hale,
    Drooped of frame and slow of stride.
    But withal an air of pride
    Looming up in stature far
    Higher than his shoulders are;
    Weary both in arm and limb,
    Yet the wholesome heart of him
    Sheer at rest and satisfied.

    Greet him as with glee of drums
    And glad cymbals, as he comes!
    Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine.
    He the Emperor - the King -
    Royal lord of everything
    Sagging Plenty's granary floors
    And out-bulging all her doors;
    He the god of corn and wine,
    Honey, milk, and fruit...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Days Gone By

O the days gone by! O the days gone by!
The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through the rye;
The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the quail
As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale;
When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in the sky,
And my happy heart brimmed over, in the days gone by.

In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped
By the honeysuckle tangles where the water-lilies dipped,
And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the brink,
Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink,
And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant's wayward cry
And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by.

O the days gone by! O the days gone by!
The music of the laughing lip, the lustre of the ey...

James Whitcomb Riley

Time Of Clearer Twitterings

I.

Time of crisp and tawny leaves,
And of tarnished harvest sheaves,
And of dusty grasses - weeds -
Thistles, with their tufted seeds
Voyaging the Autumn breeze
Like as fairy argosies:
Time of quicker flash of wings,
And of clearer twitterings
In the grove, or deeper shade
Of the tangled everglade, -
Where the spotted water-snake
Coils him in the sunniest brake;
And the bittern, as in fright,
Darts, in sudden, slanting flight,
Southward, while the startled crane
Films his eyes in dreams again.

II

Down along the dwindled creek
We go loitering. We speak
Only with old questionings
Of the dear remembered things
Of the days of long ago,
When the stream seemed thus and so
In our boyish eyes: - The bank
G...

James Whitcomb Riley