My Homestead

O, beauteous, rare old homestead!

     The heart-rest of my sires;

Weed-grown are all thy pathways,

     Ill-burning are thy fires.

Deserted are thy hearthstones,

     Once ruddy, cheer and bright;

No ray of light or splendor

     Shines from thy panes tonight.

O, grand and rich old homestead!

     I visit thee once more;

I climb thy winding stairways,

     And pace each oaken floor.

And in thy sombre shadows,

     I picture days agone;

When every hour was sunshine,

     And all my life was morn.

And now, if luck attends me,

     And if the fates be right;

I’ll ope thy creaking doorways

     And flood thee with delight.

Nov. 16, ‘92

Pub. in Conn.

Valley Ad.