The Old Home
An old lane, an old gate, an old house by a tree;
A wild wood, a wild brook they will not let me be:
In boyhood I knew them, and still they call to me.
Down deep in my heart’s core I hear them and my eyes
Through tear-mists behold them beneath the oldtime skies,
‘Mid bee-boom and rose-bloom and orchardlands arise.
I hear them; and heartsick with longing is my soul,
To walk there, to dream there, beneath the sky’s blue bowl;
Around me, within me, the weary world made whole.
To talk with the wild brook of all the long-ago;
To whisper the wood-wind of things we used to know
When we were old companions, before my heart knew woe.
To walk with the morning and watch its rose unfold;
To drowse with the noontide lulled on its heart of gold;
To lie with the night-time and dream the dreams of old.
To tell to the old trees, and to each listening leaf,
The longing, the yearning, as in my boyhood brief,
The old hope, the old love, would ease me of my grief.
The old lane, the old gate, the old house by the tree,
The wild wood, the wild brook they will not let me be:
In boyhood I knew them, and still they call to me.
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