The Meadow Path.

I.

It led adown the sloping hill, and through the valley wound,
And where the blooming clover shed its fragrance all around,
And then between the maple trees, across the little brook,
To where the old fence bars let down, a tortuous course it took;
And often are the times I've heard the merry, ringing laugh,
From rosy-ankled children there, along the meadow path.


II.

Three boys--and a little girl whose hair was chestnut gold--
(She's resting now in dreamless sleep beneath the crumbling mold;)--
But I remember her as when, with innocence and glee,
Her laughing eyes looked into mine--for she was dear to me;
And thus it is I love to let the fancy photograph
The merry group that idled there, along the meadow path.


III.

Adown it oft we used to go at twilight for the cows,
Or wander from the beaten track a rabbit to arouse,
And watch him as he scampered off, with frightened leap and bound,
The while we made the welkin ring and with our shouts resound.
The sweetest flowers that bloom for me--a fragrant aftermath--
Are those that in the memory blow, along the meadow path!

George W. Doneghy

No biography available

George W. Doneghy

A Faded Letter.

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

Wishing--Fishing.

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

To J. R. M.

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

The Dam Below The Mill.

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

English

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Through grass, through amber'd cornfields, our slow Stream,
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Tom Barbee's Pond.

I.

O sweet are the memories when backward we gaze
Through the vista of years to our schoolboy days,
When faces now vanished to the vision appear
And the music of voices long hushed we can hear,
As together we romped where the school-house stood,
Or joyfully wended our way through the wood
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II.

Though scattered by Time o'er the face of the earth,
And sorrow and anguish have succeeded to mirth,
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The Road Back

Come, walk with me and Memory;
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A wild green lane of stones and weeds
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And the wild sunflowers that wall its banks:
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The Old Spring-House.

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It stands there to-day, as it stood in the years
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And though far from it now, I can see it at will--
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

O flights of fond fancy that deeply inurn
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Which carry us back in visions and dreams
And illumine life's pathway with memory's gleams--
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