The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine, <br />And filled it is with plenty and to spare--, <br />But we are lonely here in life's decline, <br />Though fortune smiles around us everywhere: <br />We look across the gold <br />Of the harvests, as of old-- <br />The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay; <br />But most we turn our gaze, <br />As with eyes of other days, <br />To the orchard where the children used to play. <br /> <br />O from our life's full measure <br />And rich hoard of worldly treasure <br />We often turn our weary eyes away, <br />And hand in hand we wander <br />Down the old path winding yonder <br />To the orchard where the children used to play. <br /> <br />Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds; <br />The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'ver; <br />The grove's a paradise of singing birds-- <br />The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door; <br />Yet lonely, lonely still, <br />Let us prosper as we will, <br />Our old hearts seem so empty everyway-- <br />We can only through a mist <br />See the faces we have kissed <br />In the orchard where the children used to play. <br /> <br />O from our life's full measure <br />And rich hoard of worldly treasure <br />We often turn our weary eyes away, <br />And hand in hand we wander <br />Down the old path winding yonder <br />To the orchard where the children used to play.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/where-the-children-used-to-play/
