Connelbush Poem by Alexander Anderson

I hear the winds of summer rush
Above my head to-day,
As here I sit by Connelbush
To dream one hour away.


Beside the old green walls are seen,
Half hid amid the grass,
Stray flowers that peep out from their screen
In sorrow as you pass.


The garden lies a wilderness
Of growth untrained and free;
There is no hand to touch and dress
To bounds the life I see.


The walls still stand to mourn and sigh
For mirth that once was there,
In other years when youth was high
And days and nights were fair.


And still the winds round Connelbush
Blow sweet through glen and wood,
As when we heard them with the rush
Of youth through all our blood.


But still they do not seem to blow
With that sweet force we felt
When, in the years of long ago,
Our hearts were quick to melt.


The garden fence is broken down,
Unhinged the garden gate,
The roof of thatch has sunk and flown,
And all is desolate.


There is no welcome at the door,
No kindly voice to greet;
And on the path is heard no more
The sound of human feet.


I hear the tinkle of the stream
That slips beneath the grass;
I hear, and as I hear I dream,
And into visions pass.


I enter through the narrow door,
The fire gleams bright within;
And all, as it was once of yore,
Is full of mirth and din.


I hear the sound of dancing feet,
Of rustic revelry,
Of voices rising clear and sweet—
And each is known to me.


Beside the fire, and in her place,
Sits one to sympathise;
The light is on her kindly face,
And in her kindly eyes.


She watches with a quiet smile
The mirth and pastime there,
And, watching, she is young the while,
Though snow-white is her hair.


Beside her, in the hearth's sweet blaze
And leaning on her knee,
Is one—a woman in her ways—
Though but a child is she.


She, too, is full of quick reply
When laughing questions pass;
And catches with a ready eye
The wiles of lad and lass.


Another, too, who bears a part
In all this rustic life—
True woman of a daughter's heart,
Who art as true a wife.


Thou walkest other paths this hour,
For life's paths so divide;
And thine are full of gracious dower,
With children by thy side.


What can I wish to-day for thee,
If human joys should last,
But that the future years may be
As calm as were the past.


Hush, as I look a strange sad shade
Falls down upon the hearth,
And dame and grandchild slowly fade,
And pass from all the mirth.


Ah, me, that shade is death, and they
Look through its tender haze
With that half-joy that fades away,
And saddens as we gaze.


Fades, too, the sound of dance and song
The last good-night is said,
And up the pathway pass along
The last fond youth and maid.


The twilight sinks, the shadows fall,
A sense of something lost
Comes down and settles over all,
And haunts it like a ghost.


The ashes dwindle in the grate,
The last dull spark is gone,
The walls and roof are desolate,
And here I stand alone.


The winds blow sweet by Connelbush,
They fan my brow and cheek,
And in the pauses, when they hush,
I hear the streamlet speak.


I mark on hills the shadowings
That march in sad array
From clouds that float above, like wings
Of angels flung away.


And from low-lying meadow lands
Along the Nith I hear,
Uprising from haymaking bands,
Sweet laughter swift and clear.


And down the valley, further on,
Lies Sanquhar dim, and grey,
Still guarded by its pile of stone,
That crumbles day by day.


I look, and right in front is seen,
Beyond the wood and stream,
A long and narrow bank of green,
On which the metals gleam.


And up and down, with rush and roar,
Trains crash with seven-leagued stride;
Ah me, this moaning human shore
Must have its iron tide.


But here from lonely Connelbush
All life has fled away,
And nought is heard but winds that rush
And sport with its decay.


No welcome at the door to wake
The silence into mirth;
No sound but that of winds that shake
The weeds upon the hearth.


Farewell, but as I turn, my thought
Perforce is backward set,
And shadows all this lonely cot
With mists of vain regret.


Alas for human dreams that leave,
Instead of after-glow,
Cold memories that pine and grieve,
And sadden as we go.


Till, battling with the years, at last
They sink into decay,
And lie a ruin in the past,
Like Connelbush to-day.