On the Road to the Sea

Now, if I look, I see you walking down the years,

Young, and through August fields—a face, a thought, a swinging dream

perched on a stile—;

I would have liked (so vile we are!) to have taught you tears

But most to have made you smile.

To-day is not enough or yesterday: God sees it all—

Your length on sunny lawns, the wakeful rainy nights—; tell me—;

(how vain to ask), but it is not a question—just a call—;

Show me then, only your notched inches climbing up the garden wall,

I like you best when you are small.

Is this a stupid thing to say

Not having spent with you one day?

No matter; I shall never touch your hair

Or hear the little tick behind your breast,

Still it is there,

And as a flying bird

Brushes the branches where it may not rest

I have brushed your hand and heard

The child in you: I like that best

So small, so dark, so sweet; and were you also then too grave and wise?

Always I think. Then put your far off little hand in mine;—

Oh! let it rest;

I will not stare into the early world beyond the opening eyes,

Or vex or scare what I love best.

But I want your life before mine bleeds away—

Here—not in heavenly hereafters—soon,—

I want your smile this very afternoon,

(The last of all my vices, pleasant people used to say,

I wanted and I sometimes got—the Moon!)