  THE folks whom we visit, but once in a while Those friends who are far, far away, May be thoughtful and generous indeed to a fault And kindness itself every day. Not even the hills with the mist on the top And the sun shooting flames ’cross the loam, Can make me forget, nor still the wild fret In my heart for the place I call home. The valleys like Eden are misty and deep: They are washed with the dews of the morn. They but serve to depress me and make me a prey To longings both sad and forlorn. The lilt of the trees and the song of the birds Once so cheery have sobered their tone, For my heartstrings are tied, to a little fireside In a place that I love to call home. |
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