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 !

Bibliography Entry