The Old-time Village

Evening descends on the village,
The dew has jeweled the blooms,
The hawks are wheeling and darting,
The beetles whir in the glooms.

Moonlight silvers the rapid,
The waterfall pours its drone,
The frogs hold revel in chorus,
The whippoorwill grieves alone.

A somnolent handful gathers
In the dusky schoolhouse for prayer;
Beneath the sharp nose of the pastor
Two candles gutter and flare.

A russet-faced deacon rises
To speak — if ever he can.
He halts and mumbles: no matter:
God hears the worthy wee man.

A ringleted maiden's treble
Bewitches the schoolboy's ear: —
Even yet, O dimpled soprano,
Your anthem exults, and I hear!

The village remains, and the river
Beams, and the roses blow;
But the longsince dead are the only
Abiders there I know.

The living pass me in silence,
Remembrance and welcome fail;
But the holy ones of the churchyard
Awaken to bid me, Hail!