THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD
Poor are the pilgrims on life's stony way
Who, turning from the beaten track astray,
To some secluded spot, or quiet roof,
Where once perchance they spent their happy youth;
Who ne'er have felt at each familiar turn,
With eyes that fill and hearts that throb and burn,
The quiet charms of dear familiar ways
The half forgotten joys of other days.
Who, turning from the beaten track astray,
To some secluded spot, or quiet roof,
Where once perchance they spent their happy youth;
Who ne'er have felt at each familiar turn,
With eyes that fill and hearts that throb and burn,
The quiet charms of dear familiar ways
The half forgotten joys of other days.
How well do I recall that happy day
When turning from the noisy world away
By quiet lanes that never failed to charm,
I sought my home, the old deserted farm.
It was a winsome day in early fall,
A time when nature broodeth over all
Her broad domain of fruitful fields and woods,
And woos the wand'rer in her gayest moods.
I heard the south wind whisper to the corn,
Its pennons streamed and rustled back in scorn;
Each grain field caught the sunbeams in their flight
And shot them back in mellow amber light;
In deeper shades the birches' silver sheen
Shed softest rays the emerald boughs between,
The distant hills were robed in gold and dun
And hazy skies subdued the summer sun;
When turning from the noisy world away
By quiet lanes that never failed to charm,
I sought my home, the old deserted farm.
It was a winsome day in early fall,
A time when nature broodeth over all
Her broad domain of fruitful fields and woods,
And woos the wand'rer in her gayest moods.
I heard the south wind whisper to the corn,
Its pennons streamed and rustled back in scorn;
Each grain field caught the sunbeams in their flight
And shot them back in mellow amber light;
In deeper shades the birches' silver sheen
Shed softest rays the emerald boughs between,
The distant hills were robed in gold and dun
And hazy skies subdued the summer sun;
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