THE OLD HOME.

THE house we used to live in looks at us
     So wistfully as we go driving by;
The wind that makes its lone tree murmurous
     Flies swiftly after with entreating sigh.
“Come back, come back,” we hear it low implore;

“Lift up the grass-choked gate, the earth-stained door,
And enter in your childhood’s home once more.”

Ah, no, let us make merry with light speech
     Of newer days and thrust the past aside.
Close to that door the baby used to reach

     The knob and play with it—before he died.
He used to sleep on the broad window-sill,
A sunbeam on his curls. No, not that hill,
This level road. Drive fast—oh, faster still! [Page 139]

How small it was! Before the birds have grown

     They lie so warmly in one tiny nest;
But all the world is theirs when they are flown
     And foreign roofs replace the mother’s breast.
Ah, well, God careth.  See, before us now
The ampler home beneath its stately bough.

Lift up the saddened heart and clear the brow.

For in that empty nest beyond the hill
     All blessed shadows at immortal ease:
The sun-crowned baby on the window-sill,
     The happy children underneath the trees.

Old house, look not so piteous!  Thou art
Of larger lives the very sweetest part,
The first love of the unforgetting heart. [Page 140]