Poems (Stephens)/Recollections

by Eliza Jane Stephens

For works with similar titles, see Recollections.

RECOLLECTIONS.

'Twas Spring, though tiny drifts of snow
 Along the fence were seen;
The trees had not put on their leaves—
 The meadows were not green.

The sky had yet a Wintry look,
 That cold and cheerless blue,
Save where the sunlight touched a cloud
 With faintest rosy hue.

Just then, while standing in my door,
 I heard as sweet a strain
As e'er had fallen on my ear,
 Or ever will again.

'Twas but a robin's simple song;
 Yet 'twas so soft and clear,
It woke a thousand memories,
 My heart still owned as dear.

It seemed, indeed, the very note
 I heard long years ago,
While wandering by the brook one day,
 To mark its changeful flow.

It called to mind the face and form,
 And e'en the voice's tone,
Of those who sported with me then,
 Though many years have flown,

Since eagerly we climbed that hill,
 And sought and found the nest,
Where objects of untiring love
 Their downy pillow prest.

I saw the looks of wonderment,
 And every childish word
Was fresh again in memory,
 As if but lately heard.

They seemed to me as children still,
 Each brow all smooth and fair;
I could not think of them as changed
 Since when I saw them there;

It seemed as if the robin's song
 Would find them just as gay;
Their step as light, their cheek as fresh,
 As on that Summer's day.

As if no chilling blast of care
 Had ever o'er them swept;
As if o'er no departed joys
 They e'er had sighed or wept.

And yet I know it could not be,
 For I have sadder grown;
It cannot be of all that band
 That I am changed alone.