This common field, this little brook--
What is there hidden in these two,
That I so often on them look,
Oftener than on the heavens blue?
No beauty lies upon the field;
Small music doth the river yield;
And yet I look and look again,
With something of a pleasant pain.
'Tis thirty--_can't_ be thirty years,
Since last I stood upon this plank.
Which o'er the brook its figure rears,
And watch'd the pebbles as they sank?
How white the stream! I still remember
Its margin glassed by hoar December,
And how the sun fell on the snow:
Ah! can it be so long ago?
It cometh back;--so blithe, so bright,
It hurries to my eager ken.
As though but one short winter's night
Had darkened o'er the world since then.
It is the same clear dazzling scene;--
Perhaps the grass is scarce as green;
Perhaps the river's troubled voice
Doth not so plainly say--"Rejoice."
Yet Nature surely never ranges,
Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown;--
But, ever joyful, merely changes
The primrose for the thistle-down.
'Tis _we_ alone who, waxing old,
Look on her with an aspect cold,
Dissolve her in our burning tears,
Or clothe her with the mists of years!
Then, why should not the grass be green?
And why should not the river's song
Be merry,--as they both have been
When I was here an urchin strong?
Ah, true--too true! I see the sun
Through thirty winter years hath run.
For grave eyes, mirrored in the brook,
Usurp the urchin's laughing look!
So be it! I have lost,--and won!
For, once, the past was poor to me,--
The future dim: and though the sun
Shed life and strength, and I was free,
I _felt_ not--_knew_ no grateful pleasure:
All seemed but as the common measure:
But NOW--the experienced spirit old
Turns all the leaden past to gold.
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