Produced by Jamie Taylor in memory of Helen Keller.
1910Copyright, 1909, 1910.Published October, 1910.
When I began The Song of the Stone Wall, Dr. Edward Everett Halewas still among us, and it was my intention to dedicate the poemto him if it should be deemed worthy of publication. I fancied thathe would like it; for he loved the old walls and the traditions thatcling about them.
As I tried to image the men who had built the walls long ago, itseemed to me that Dr. Hale was the living embodiment of whatever washeroic in the founders of New England. He was a great American. Hewas also a great Puritan. Was not the zeal of his ancestors upon hislips, and their courage in his heart? Had they not bequeathed to himtheir torch-like faith, their patient fervor of toil and their creedof equality?
But his bright spirit had inherited no trace of their harshness andgloom. The windows of his soul opened to the sunlight of a joyousfaith. His optimism and genial humor inspired gladness and goodsense in others. With an old story he prepared their minds toreceive new ideas, and with a parable he opened their hearts togenerous feelings. All men loved him because he loved them. Theyknew that his heart was in their happiness, and that his humanityembraced their sorrows. In him the weak found a friend, theunprotected, a champion. Though a herald and proclaimer of peace, hecould fight stubbornly and passionately on the side of justice. Hiswas a lovable, uplifting greatness which drew all men near and evernearer to God and to each other. Like his ancestors, he dreamed of aland of freedom founded on the love of God and the brotherhood ofman, a land where each man shall achieve his share of happiness andlearn the work of manhoodto rule himself and lend a hand.
Thoughts like these were often in my mind as the poem grew and tookform. It is fitting, therefore, that I should dedicate it to him,and in so doing I give expression to the love and reverence which Ihave felt for him ever since he called me his little cousin, morethan twenty years ago.
Wrentham, Massachusetts,
January, 1910.
Come walk with me, and I will tell
What I have read in this scroll of stone;
I will spell out this writing on hill and meadow.
It is a chronicle wrought by praying workmen,
The forefathers of our nation—
Leagues upon leagues of sealed history awaiting an interpreter.
This is New England's tapestry of stone
Alive with memories that throb and quiver
At the core of the ages
As the prophecies of old at the heart of Gods Word.
The walls have many things to tell me,
And the days are long. I come and listen:
My hand is upon the stones, and the tale I fain would hear
Is of the men who built the walls,
And of the God who made the stones and the workers.
With searching feet I walk beside the wall;
I plunge and stumble over the fallen stones;
I follow the windings of the wall
Over the heaving hill, down by the meadow-brook,
Beyond the scented fields, by the marsh where rushes grow.
On I trudge through pine woods fragrant and cool
And emerge amid clustered pools and by rolling acres of rye.
The wall is builded of field-stones great and small,
Tumbled