THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE
by: James Whitcomb Riley
(1849-1916)
- H! the old swimmin'-hole! whare
the crick so still and deep
- Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
- And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
- Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
- Before we could remember anything but the eyes
- Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
- But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
- And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.
-
- Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
- When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
- Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
- That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
- It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
- My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
- But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
- From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
-
- Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days
- When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
- How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
- Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
- You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
- They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
- But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
- Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
-
- Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
- And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
- And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
- Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
- And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
- Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
- Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
- As it cut acrost some orchard to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
-
- Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,
- The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
- The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
- Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
- And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be--
- But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
- And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
- And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.
"The Old Swimmin'-Hole"
is reprinted from Complete Works. James Whitcomb Riley.
Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1916. |
MORE POEMS BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY |
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