 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes |  |
OUR HOMESTEAD.
Our old brown homestead reared its walls,
From the way-side dust aloof,
Where the apple-boughs could almost cast
Their fruitage on its roof:
And the cherry-tree so near it grew,
That when awake I 've lain,
In the lonesome nights, I 've heard the limbs,
As they creaked against the pane:
And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees!
I 've seen my little brothers rocked
In their tops by the summer breeze.
From the way-side dust aloof,
Where the apple-boughs could almost cast
Their fruitage on its roof:
And the cherry-tree so near it grew,
That when awake I 've lain,
In the lonesome nights, I 've heard the limbs,
As they creaked against the pane:
And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees!
I 've seen my little brothers rocked
In their tops by the summer breeze.
The sweet-brier under the window-sill,
Which the early birds made glad,
And the damask rose by the garden fence,
Were all the flowers we had.
I 've looked at many a flower since then,
Exotics rich and rare,
That to other eyes were lovelier,
But not to me so fair;
O those roses bright, O those roses bright!
I have twined them in my sister's locks,
That are hid in the dust from sight!
Which the early birds made glad,
And the damask rose by the garden fence,
Were all the flowers we had.
I 've looked at many a flower since then,
Exotics rich and rare,
That to other eyes were lovelier,
But not to me so fair;
O those roses bright, O those roses bright!
I have twined them in my sister's locks,
That are hid in the dust from sight!
We had a well, a deep old well,
Where the spring was never dry,
And the cool drops down from the mossy stones
Were falling constantly:
And there never was water half so sweet
As that in my little cup,
Drawn up to the earth by the rude old sweep,
Which my father's hand set up;
And that deep old well, O that deep old well!
I remember yet the plashing sound
Of the bucket as it fell.
Where the spring was never dry,
357
Were falling constantly:
And there never was water half so sweet
As that in my little cup,
Drawn up to the earth by the rude old sweep,
Which my father's hand set up;
And that deep old well, O that deep old well!
I remember yet the plashing sound
Of the bucket as it fell.
Our homestead had an ample hearth,
Where at night we loved to meet;
There my mother's voice was always kind,
And her smile was always sweet;
And there I 've sat on my father's knee,
And watched his thoughtful brow,
With my childish hand in his raven hair,—
That hair is silver now!
But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light!
And my father's look, and my mother's smile,—
They are in my heart to-night.
Where at night we loved to meet;
There my mother's voice was always kind,
And her smile was always sweet;
And there I 've sat on my father's knee,
And watched his thoughtful brow,
With my childish hand in his raven hair,—
That hair is silver now!
But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light!
And my father's look, and my mother's smile,—
They are in my heart to-night.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes | |