THE ROPE-WALK. 85 THE ROPE-WALK. IN that building long and low, Like the port-holes of a hulk, At the end an open door; As the spinners to the end Gleam the long threads in the sun; While within this brain of mine By the busy wheels are spun. Two fair maidens in a swing, First before my vision pass: Then a booth of mountebanks, And a weary look of care. Then a homestead among farms, As the bucket mounts apace, Then an old man in a tower, Ringing loud the noontide hour; While the rope coils round and round Like a serpent at his feet, And again in swift retreat Almost lifts him from the ground. THE ROPE-WALK. 87 Then, within a prison-yard, Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, Breath of Christian charity, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a schoolboy, with his kite And an eager, upward look; Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, Anchors dragged through faithless sand; Sea-fog drifting overhead, And with lessening line and lead All these scenes do I behold, In that building long and low: And the spinners backward go. LONGFELLOW. |