MAIN STREET BY MOONLIGHT.

The old church clock strikes one, and down the row Of ancient houses where the moonlight floods, The black tree branches move like wands that throw A net of woven loopings flecked with buds. The night is still, a silver quiet now Transforms the plain old homes whose ancient mood Returns; through panelled doorways come and go Figures soft shod, in prim calash and hood; Here by a lilac bush the little gate Supports two figures of sweetheart and beau Here by a hedge two others hesitate Then join the shadowy thronging too and fro. Do you believe that in those rooms upstair The newer generation dreams again Back to the lives of all these women and men Setting them free to haunt the pavements here? That youngsters sleeping see sails homeward fare, Ships laden with treasure and salt romance; The Quakers’ broad brim; Puritans askance? That such bold dreaming sets these spirits free On this deserted street in moonlit beam “Coming alive,” though coming soberly And looking on us as figures in their dream? Hush, with what proud simplicity these figures move And live again austerities of grace Who used their lives so guardedly—this glove The homespun petticoat! this barbe of lace! Boots and prunellas on the brick path pace; Fair tinted skin, clear eye and honored name Come through the panelled doors or garden place. The scholars’ reserve, the solid merchants’ fame The Friends, the Captains, blooded knight and dame, Who to old English gentry backward trace. So through the cobbled streets they silently press On very gentle errands of their own And make no plea, and no proud tale confess Nor look aghast at their once simple town Yet do they smile, permitting us to guess That they prefer their own to our renown.... Was that the clock just struck ... the street is clear The moon rides high, there are no figures here.... Someone stopped dreaming in this street, my dear!