MY ATTIC

I HAVE an attic—not city made,
Nor far removed from the fresh green earth,
Strewn with the tools of a manly trade,
And guns, and fiddles, and books of worth.

A narrow window looks toward the town,
Where, shown by waves of the summer breeze,
Are checkered glimpses of white and brown,
Peeping thro’ maple and linden trees.

A little brook that murmurs and flows,
A little garden of well tilled land,
And trees, not standing in stiff, straight rows,
All planted and pruned by the owner’s hand,

Lovingly tended, thriftily grown,
With many a quaint, odd crook and trend
I know their names as I know my own,
And every tree is a personal friend.

At the first faint glimmer on rock and tree
I rise, with the earliest blue-birds’ trill.
’Tis a freak of mine; and I like to see
The sunshine break on Losinger Hill;

For I like him best in his morning face,
Untired with the daily race he runs;
And I’m sometimes sad when he yields his place
To the winds of night and the lesser suns.

I ply the thread and the brightened awl
To the runes that the woodland thrushes sing;
And the plash of a tiny waterfall
Keeps merry time to the lapstone’s ring.

And little I reck, as I shape the sole,
Of scanty clothing or empty purse,
I sing the ballad of old King Cole,
Or wear my leisure on simple verse.

The man of millions shall pass away,
His wealth divided, himself forgot,
But better one leaf of deathless bay
Than all the riches that rust and rot.

And at rare, odd times, in the better moods,
Some rustic verses to me are born,
That may live, perchance, in their native woods
As long as the crows that pull the corn.