Twenty Years

Beg your pardon, old fellow! I think
I was dreaming just now when you spoke.
The fact is, the musical clink
Of the ice on your wine-goblets brink
A chord of my memory woke.

And I stood in the pasture-field where
Twenty summers ago I had stood;
And I heard in that sound, I declare,
The clinking of bells in the air,
Of the cows coming home from the wood.

Then the apple-bloom shook on the hill;
And the mullein-stalks tilted each lance;
And the sun behind Rapalyes mill
Was my uttermost West, and could thrill
Like some fanciful land of romance.

Then my friend was a hero, and then
My girl was an angel. In fine,
I drank buttermilk; for at ten
Faith asks less to aid her than when
At thirty we doubt over wine.

Ah, well, it does seem that I must
Have been dreaming just now when you spoke,
Or lost, very like, in the dust
Of the years that slow fashioned the crust
On that bottle whose seal you last broke.

Twenty years was its age, did you say?
Twenty years? Ah, my friend, it is true!
All the dreams that have flown since that day,
All the hopes in that time passed away,
Old friend, Ive been drinking with you!

Bret Harte

Bret Harte was an American author and poet, renowned for his works about pioneering life in California. Born on August 25, 1836, he gained national fame with his short stories and poetry depicting life in the early mining camps. His most famous works include 'The Luck of Roaring Camp' and 'The Outcasts of Poker Flat.' Harte's writings played a crucial role in shaping the Western genre in American literature. He passed away on May 5, 1902.

Bret Harte

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A Second Review of the Grand Army

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

Songs Without Sense

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

On William Francis Bartlett

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

English

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The Willows

The skies they were ashen and sober,
The streets they were dirty and drear;
It was night in the month of October,
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Like the skies, I was perfectly sober,
As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,
At the Nightingale, perfectly sober,
And the willowy woodland down here.

Here, once in an alley Titanic
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Of Ten-pins, with Mary, my soul;
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The Return of Belisarius

So youre back from your travels, old fellow,
And you left but a twelvemonth ago;
Youve hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon,
Eugenie, and kissed the Popes toe.
By Jove, it is perfectly stunning,
Astounding, and all that, you know;
Yes, things are about as you left them
In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago.

The boys! theyre all right, Oh! Dick Ashley,
Hes buried somewhere in the snow;
He was lost on the Summit last winter,
And Bob has a hard row to hoe.
You know that hes got the consumption?
You didnt! Well, come, thats a go;
I certainly wrote you at Baden,
Dear me! that was six months ago.

I got all your outlandish letters,
All stamped by some foreign P. O.
I handed myself to Miss Mary
That sketch of a famous chateau.
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Twenty Years Ago

I am growing old and weary
Ere yet my locks are gray;
Before me lies eternity,
Behind me but a day.
How fast the years are vanishing!
They melt like April snow:
It seems to me but yesterday
Twenty years ago.

There's the school-house on the hill-side,
And the romping scholars all;
Where we used to con our daily tasks,
And play our games of ball.
They rise to me in visions
In sunny dreams and ho'
I sport among the boys and girls
Twenty years ago.

We played at ball in summer time
We boys with hearty will;
With merry shouts in winter time
We coasted on the hill.
We would choose our chiefs, divide in bands,
And build our forts of snow,
And storm those forts right gallantly
Twenty years ago.

Last year in June...

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Telemachus versus Mentor

Dont mind me, I beg you, old fellow, Ill do very well here alone;
You must not be kept from your German because Ive dropped in like a stone.
Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught but yourself;
And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on the shelf.

As for me, you will say to your hostess well, I scarcely need give you a cue.
Chant my praise! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury pipe to a few.
Say just what you please, my dear boy; theres more eloquence lies in youths rash
Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this grizzling mustache.

Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant, youths panoplied armor for fight,
And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and lasts but a night;
And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what ...

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Tom Van Arden.

    Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
        Our warm fellowship is one
    Far too old to comprehend
        Where its bond was first begun:
            Mirage-like before my gaze
            Gleams a land of other days,
            Where two truant boys, astray,
            Dream their lazy lives away.

    There's a vision, in the guise
        Of Midsummer, where the Past
    Like a weary beggar lies
        In the shadow Time has cast;
            And as blends the bloom of trees
            With the drowsy hum of bees,
            Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,
            Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

    Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
        All the pleasures we have known
    Thrill me now as I extend
        This old hand...

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The Old Camp-Fire

Now shift the blanket pad before your saddle back you fling,
And draw your cinch up tighter till the sweat drops from the ring:
Weve a dozen miles to cover ere we reach the next divide.
Our limbs are stiffer now than when we first set out to ride,
And worse, the horses know it, and feel the leg-grip tire,
Since in the days when, long ago, we sought the old camp-fire.

Yes, twenty years! Lord! how wed scent its incense down the trail,
Through balm of bay and spice of spruce, when eye and ear would fail,
And worn and faint from useless quest we crept, like this, to rest,
Or, flushed with luck and youthful hope, we rode, like this, abreast.
Ay! straighten up, old friend, and let the mustang think hes nigher,
Through looser rein and stirrup strain, the welcome old camp-fire.
...

Bret Harte