Friends, by Madison Cawein

  Down through the woods, along the way
  That fords the stream; by rock and tree,
  Where in the bramble-bell the bee
  Swings; and through twilights green and gray
  The redbird flashes suddenly,
  My thoughts went wandering to-day.

  I found the fields where, row on row,
  The blackberries hang dark with fruit;
  Where, nesting at the elder's root,
  The partridge whistles soft and low;
  The fields, that billow to the foot
  Of those old hills we used to know.

  There lay the pond, all willow-bound,
  On whose bright face, when noons were hot,
  We marked the bubbles rise; some plot
  To lure us in; while all around
  Our heads,—like faery fancies,—shot
  The dragonflies without a sound.

  The pond, above which evening bent
  To gaze upon her gypsy face;
  Wherein the twinkling night would trace
  A vague, inverted firmament;
  In which the green frogs tuned their bass,
  And firefly sparkles came and went.

  The oldtime place we often ranged,
  When we were playmates, you and I;
  The oldtime fields, with boyhood's sky
  Still blue above them!—Naught was changed:
  Nothing.—Alas! then, tell me why
  Should we be? whom the years estranged.