  An unkept field, whose grasses greet the sun, And pure, white daisies spread like fallen snow; The shady nooks, where trout brooks gaily run, And, ’mong the trees, the farm-house quaint and low. Like some worn soldier on the battle fields It stands upon the old familiar ground, And to the past it’s former strength it yields, While naught but desolation broods around. ’Neath shutters closed the phoebe builds her nest, While near the eaves the little sparrows fly; All undisturbed they sing their young to rest, As did a mother in the years gone by. The wicker gate is falling to decay, The narrow paths with growing weeds abound; The long, low shed thro’ which the sunbeams stray, Is leaning eastward to the grassy ground. The barn door creaks upon it’s hinges old; The prop that stayed it from the winds that blow No more stands guard against the heat and cold— The summer’s rain and winter’s drifts of snow. The lofts, once laden with the new mown hay, No longer echo with the merry din; From beam to beam, where children loved to play, The spiders many a silken cobweb spin. No more the tinkle of the distant bell Disturbs the hush of daylight’s waning hours; The pasture bars, beside a covered well, Are twined with grape-vines and with fair wild flowers. The “Bouncing Bet” is growing near the gate, The climbing roses bloom beside the door; The brave “Sweet William,” left alone to fate, Has struggled upward thro’ the grass once more. The clover blossoms, pink and white and red, Fill all the balmy air with perfume sweet; The honey-suckle proudly bends it’s head Close to the door-stone worn by many feet. Where once a maiden slied a bit of green Within her shoe, and there expectant stood, To-day the self same “Grandma’s pride” is seen,— A little bunch of fragrant southern-wood. The low-eaved porch supports the clinging vine, While thro’ the roof the summer rain-drops fall; Upon the floor a rusty hook and line, A well-worn bench and silence over all. A well-sweep, overgrown with moss and mould, Shelters a hornet’s nest within it’s nook; Above the running waters clear and cold An old tin dipper hangs upon it’s hook. The dull-edged scythe swings idly in the sun, A grindstone crumbles ’neath the maple’s shade; A cart-wheel and the faded coat of one Who long ago beneath the sod was laid. Tho’ gone the smile of each familiar face And merry voices break no more the calm, Yet Memory sweet shall hallow all the place And flood with peace the old deserted farm. |
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