. The mountains about Williamstown . lint sky-sheet, held to light againstThe little town of learning that I loved.—Page 62 63 64 THe Movintains About ■Williamsto-wn To this more common world—that was not all Discussed if not decided. Nor confined To bounds material were we. While the winds Would whistle through the trees and round the rocks, Our shouts would join them, now, perchance intent To rouse loud echoes, dealt us like applause For ungrown voices that would fit themselves To bear the burden of the larger thought For which the world beyond our youth seemed waiting; And now, perchance, t
. The mountains about Williamstown . lint sky-sheet, held to light againstThe little town of learning that I loved.—Page 62 63 64 THe Movintains About ■Williamsto-wn To this more common world—that was not all Discussed if not decided. Nor confined To bounds material were we. While the winds Would whistle through the trees and round the rocks, Our shouts would join them, now, perchance intent To rouse loud echoes, dealt us like applause For ungrown voices that would fit themselves To bear the burden of the larger thought For which the world beyond our youth seemed waiting; And now, perchance, though seldom recognized, Nor if, though subtly recognized, confessed. Intent to gain fore-echoes, as it were, Of that which should be college approbation When words that to the air were now rehearsed Should load the breath that carries freight to spirit. And, borne along the clogs of others pulses. Should start that subtle surging in the veins That proves the presence and completes the work Of what impels to rhythmic A CLASS-DAY SPEECH BETWEEN EAST COLLEGE AND THE LIBRARY Fit themselvesTo bear the hurden of the larger thoughtFor which the uorld beyond our youth seemed waiting.—Page 64 65 66 The Moxintains About Williamstown Then, warned by coming twilight we would turn,And dare to lose the path, and plunge adownWhere, lured by rock or rill, we snapt apartThe network of the tangled if to seize wild prey enmeshed therein—Oh, happy days of youth! when empty sportOf mere imagination—fancied game^—Could fill the hunters pouch to overflowing!Ay, how much better than the days of age—Alas, I fear it, too, of modern youthFor whom, so rich in matter, poor in manufacture implements of playThat clip at fancies till they all fit facts,Plane joys to toys, and level games to gain,Till every pleasure palls that fails to payIn scales that rate lifes worth by what it weighsWhen all the spirits buoyancy is lost. How often with no friend except myse
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