---

James Whitcomb Riley - A Backward Look
Work rating: Low

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,
    And lazily leaning back in my chair,
  Enjoying myself in a general way--
  Allowing my thoughts a holiday
    From weariness, toil and care,--
  My fancies--doubtless, for ventilation--
    Left ajar the gates of my mind,--
  And Memory, seeing the situation,
    Slipped out in street of "Auld Lang Syne."

  Wandering ever with tireless feet
    Through scenes of silence, and jubilee
  Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet
  Were thronging the shadowy side of the street
    As far as the eye could see;
  Dreaming again, in anticipation,
    The same old dreams of our boyhood`s days
  That never come true, from the vague sensation
    Of walking asleep in the world`s strange ways.

  Away to the house where I was born!
    And there was the selfsame clock that ticked
  From the close of dusk to the burst of morn,
  When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn
    And helped when the apples were picked.
  And the "chany-dog" on the mantel-shelf,
    With the gilded collar and yellow eyes,
  Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself
    Sound asleep with the dear surprise.

  And down to the swing in the locust tree,
    Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground,
  And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three
  Or four such other boys used to be
    Doin` "sky-scrapers," or "whirlin` round:"
  And again Bob climbed for the bluebird`s nest,
    And again "had shows" in the buggy-shed
  Of Guymon`s barn, where still, unguessed,
    The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!

  And again I gazed from the old school-room
    With a wistful look of a long June day,
  When on my cheek was the hectic bloom
  Caught of Mischief, as I presume--
    He had such a "partial" way,
  It seemed, toward me.--And again I thought
    Of a probable likelihood to be
  Kept in after school--for a girl was caught
    Catching a note from me.

  And down through the woods to the swimming-hole--
    Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows,--
  And we never cared when the water was cold,
  And always "ducked" the boy that told
    On the fellow that tied the clothes.--
  When life went so like a dreamy rhyme,
    That it seems to me now that then
  The world was having a jollier time
    Than it ever will have again.
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.