  Our old brown homestead reared its walls From the wayside dust aloof, Where the apple boughs could almost cast Their fruit upon its roof; And the cherry tree so near it grew That when awake I've lain, In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs As they creaked against the pane. The sweetbrier, under the window sill, Which the early birds made glad, And the damask rose, by the garden fence, Were all the flowers we had. We had a well, a deep old well, Where the spring was never dry, And the cool drops down from the mossy stones Were falling constantly. And there never was water half so sweet As the draught which filled my cup, Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep That my father's hand set up. —Phoebe Cary. |
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