  Between broad fields of wheat and corn Is the lowly home where I was born; The peach tree leans against the wall, And the woodbine wanders over all; There is the shaded doorway still, But a stranger’s foot has crossed the sill. There is the barn—and, as of yore, I can smell the hay from the open door, And see the busy swallows throng, And hear the pewee’s mournful song; But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof— His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. There is the orchard—the very trees Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, And watched the shadowy moments run Till my life imbibed more shade than sun; The swing from the bough still sweeps the air, But the stranger’s children are swinging there. Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, Step lightly, for I love it still; And when you crowd the old barn eaves, Then think what countless harvest sheaves Have passed within that scented door To gladden eyes that are no more. Deal kindly with these orchard trees; And when your children crowd their knees Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, As if old memories stirred their heart; To youthful sport still leave the swing, And in sweet reverence hold the spring. The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds, The meadows with their lowing herds, The woodbine on the cottage wall— My heart still lingers with them all. Ye strangers on my native sill, Step lightly, for I love it still. —Thomas Buchanan Mead. |
|
