COME to me, you with the laughing face, in the night as I lie Dreaming of days that are dead and of joys gone by; Come to me, comrade, come through the slow dropping rain, Come from your grave in the darkness and let us be playmates again. Let us be boys together to-night, and pretend as of old We are pirates at rest in a cave among huge heaps of gold, Red Spanish doubloons and great pieces of eight, and muskets and swords, And a smoky red camp-fire to glint, you know how, on our ill-gotten hoards. The old cave in the fir-wood that slopes down the hills to the sea Still is haunted, perhaps, by young pirates as wicked as we: Though the fir with the magpie's big mud-plastered nest used to hide it so well, And the boys in the gang had to swear that they never would tell. Ah, that tree; I have sat in its boughs and looked seaward for hours; I remember the creak of its branches; the scent of the flowers That climbed round the mouth of the cave: it is odd I recall Those little things best, that I scarcely took heed of at all. I remember how brightly the brass on the butt of my spy-glass gleamed As I climbed through the purple heather and thyme to our eyrie and dreamed; I remember the smooth glossy sun-burn that darkened our faces and hands As we gazed at the merchantmen sailing away to those wonderful lands. I remember the long long sigh of the sea as we raced in the sun, To dry ourselves after our swimming; and how we would run With a cry and a crash through the foam as it creamed on the shore, Then back to bask in the warm dry gold of the sand once more. Come to me; you with the laughing face; in the gloom as I lie Dreaming of days that are dead and of joys gone by; Let us be boys together to-night and pretend as of old We are pirates at rest in a cave among great heaps of gold. Come; you shall be chief: we'll not quarrel: the time flies so fast: There are ships to be grappled, there's blood to be shed, ere our playtime be past: No; perhaps we will quarrel, just once, or it scarcely will seem So like the old days that have flown from us both like a dream. Still; you shall be chief in the end; and then we'll go home To the hearth and the tea and the books that we loved: ah, but come, Come to me, come through the dark and the slow-dropping rain; Come, old friend, come from your grave and let us be playmates again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: SETH COMPTON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS JULY FOURTH; 1867 by LEVI BISHOP HONOUR'S APPEAL TO JUSTICE by OLIVA WARD BUSH BLIGHTED LOVE by LUIS DE CAMOENS THE HERB-LEECH by JOSEPH CAMPBELL TO GEORGE BORROW (LAVENGRO) by GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE THE DEAD by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES |