A REVERIE ^ 
By JAMES A. SLOTE 
The wild flowers bloom and the WW^g**^* 
The fish lurk deep in the streams swift flow. 
Near an old log cottage where m dreams I g . 
An old worn stepstone and a P« nc ^f,°“,he dior 
The spinning wheel harnessed rns.de the door, 
There my forebears dwelt in the days of j ore. 
The big fireplace at the end of the r .om . 
standint nearby is giannus o d loom. 
Kept dast-free with a sedgegrass broura. 
Over the mantle is the long squirrel gun 
The weight clock starts its striae wiru a .ram, 
GranrTy^' eel sounds a click and a ske.u is run. 
A dinner pot hangs on the old swing crane, 
The iron ie.rkett.e e.ngs its low retain, 
Im the fire a boy ^ees his castle in >. pa n 
When the whippoorwill called in the woods below, 
To a little maidens Koine with posies 1 d go, 
And we built air eastles in the moonlight glow. 
Xstill hear t ie musis of my houni—dogs bay, 
The Boh-White- is calling in the same sweet way, 
O was it many years ago or only yesterday. 
I long to go bach but the house is no more, 
The"cld couple’s home is on the other shore, 
My ca d’e in Spain— a room in the city’s roar 
But the flowers still bloom and the trees still grow, 
And the fish lurk deep in the streams swift flow, 
*1 have traveled far and my steps are slow, 
But back fch ire, once again, I hope to go. 
