In recognition of October being a time to remember the departed in many cultures, this month's poems are taken from the anthology,
Words For Parting: Victorian Poetry on Death and Mourning
Forty Years Ago
I've wander'd to the village, Tom,
I've sat beneath the tree,
Upon the school-house play-ground,
That shelter'd you and me;
But none were left to greet me, Tom,
And few were left to know,
Who play'd with us upon that green
Just forty years ago.
The grass was just as green, Tom,
Barefooted boys at play
Were sporting, just as we did then,
With spirits just as gay;
But the master sleeps upon the hill,
Which, coated, o'er with snow,
Afforded us a sliding-place
Some forty years ago.
The old school-house is alter'd some,
The benches are replaced
By new ones, very like the same
Our jack-knives had defaced;
But the same old bricks are in the wall,
And the bell swings to and fro,
It's music just the same, dear Tom,
'Twas forty years ago.
The boys were playing some old game
Beneath that same old tree;
I do forget the name just now,--
You've played the same with me
On that same spot;
'Twas played with knives,
By throwing so and so;
The loser had a task to do
There forty years ago.
The river's running just as still;
The willows on its side
Are larger than they were, Tom;
The stream appears less wide;
But the grape-vine swing is miss'd now,
Where once we played the beau,
And swung our sweethearts—pretty girls--
Just forty years ago.
The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill,
Close by the spreading beech,
Is very low; 'twas once so high
That we could scarcely reach;
And kneeling down to take a drink,
Dear Tom, I started so,
To think how much I've changed
Since forty years ago.
Near by that spring, upon an elm,
You know, I cut your name;
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom,
And you did mine the same.
Some heartless wretch has peel'd the bark;
'Twas dying sure, but slow,
Just as she died whose name you cut
There forty years ago.
My lids have long been dry, Tom,
But tears came in my eyes;
I thought of her I loved so well,
Those early broken ties.
I visited the old church-yard,
And took some flowers to strow
Upon the graves of those we loved
Just forty years ago.
Some are in the church-yard laid,
Some sleep beneath the sea;
But none are left of our old class
Excepting you and me.
And when our time shall come, Tom,
And we are call'd to go,
I hope we'll meet with those we loved
Some forty years ago.
—Anonymous
Fulton and Trueblood's Choice Readings, 1884, pp. 159—161.
Victorian Mourning Customs
Words For Parting: Victorian Poetry on Death and Mourning
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