JEST as atween the awk'ard lines a hand we love has penn'd <br />Appears a meanin' hid from other eyes, <br />So, in your simple, homespun art, old honest Yankee friend, <br />A power o' tearful, sweet seggestion lies. <br />We see it all--the pictur' that our mem'ries hold so dear-- <br />The homestead in New England far away, <br />An' the vision is so nat'ral-like we almost seem to hear <br />The voices that were heshed but yesterday. <br /> <br />Ah, who'd ha' thought the music of that distant childhood time <br />Would sleep through all the changeful, bitter years <br />To waken into melodies like Chris'mas bells a-chime <br />An' to claim the ready tribute of our tears! <br />Why, the robins in the maples an' the blackbirds round the pond, <br />The crickets an' the locusts in the leaves, <br />The brook that chased the trout adown the hillside just beyond, <br />An' the swallers in their nests beneath the eaves-- <br />They all come troopin' back with you, dear Uncle Josh, to-day, <br />An' they seem to sing with all the joyous zest <br />Of the days when we were Yankee boys an' Yankee girls at play, <br />With nary thought of 'livin' way out West'! <br /> <br />God bless ye, Denman Thomps'n, for the good y' do our hearts, <br />With this music an' these memories o' youth-- <br />God bless ye for the faculty that tops all human arts, <br />The good ol' Yankee faculty of Truth!<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-homestead-3/
