Our old brown homestead reared its walls,
From the wayside 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 with 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 curb 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 splashing 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.
_Phoebe Cary._