Willy Pitcher
By George Sterling
Sharon, Conn.
He is forgottem now,
And humble dust these thirty years and more-—
He whose young eyes and beautiful wide brow
My thoughts alone restore.
Dead, and his kindred dead !
And none remembers in that quiet place
The slender form, the brown and faunlike head,
The gently wistful face.
And yet across the years
I see us roam among the apple-trees,
Telling our tale of boyish hopes and fears
Amid the hurried bees.
When I am all alone
By the eternal beauty of the sea,
Or where the mountain's eastern shade is thrown
His face comes back to me—
A memory unsought,—
A ghost entreating, and I know not why,—
A presence that the restless winds of thought
Acknowledge with a sigh;
Till I am half content
Not any more the loneliness to know
Of him who died so young and innocent,
And ah ! so long ago !
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