The Paths of Childhood

I tread the paths of childhood now

     With shortened steps and slow,

Beneath familiar branch and bough

     With apples bending low.

I reach the old forsaken gate,

     Whose fate has long been sealed,

Where we as children used to wait

     For father from the field.

But there’s a strangeness all around,

     Tho’ what I scarcely know;

A difference in each sight and sound

     From that of long ago.

The concord vines I do not see,

     The well has lost its charm

And everything changed seems to be

     Down on the dear old farm.

And other children at the gate

     Are waiting in our stead;

Another father now is late

     Than that of mine and Ted.

And so I pass the old gate by,

     Down to the riverside,

Where Ted and I with pants rolled high

     Sailed play boats on the tide.

But ah! No Strangeness here I find,

     Upon the river’s flow,

The same majestic liquid wind

     As that of long ago.

I linger on the grassy shore –

     My thoughts grow sweetly calm;

And now I feel at home once more

     Down on the dear old farm.

Feb. 6, ‘92

Pub. in Conn. Valley Ad.