The Old Farm, by Madison Cawein

  Dormered and verandaed, cool,
    Locust-girdled, on the hill;
  Stained with weather-wear, and dull-
    Streak'd with lichens; every sill
  Thresholding the beautiful;

  I can see it standing there,
    Brown above the woodland deep,
  Wrapped in lights of lavender,
    By the warm wind rocked asleep,
  Violet shadows everywhere.

  I remember how the Spring,
    Liberal-lapped, bewildered its
  Acred orchards, murmuring,
    Kissed to blossom; budded bits
  Where the wood-thrush came to sing.

  Barefoot Spring, at first who trod,
    Like a beggermaid, adown
  The wet woodland; where the god,
    With the bright sun for a crown
  And the firmament for rod,

  Met her; clothed her; wedded her;
    Her Cophetua: when, lo!
  All the hill, one breathing blur,
    Burst in beauty; gleam and glow
  Blent with pearl and lavender.

  Seckel, blackheart, palpitant
    Rained their bleaching strays; and white
  Snowed the damson, bent aslant;
    Rambow-tree and romanite
  Seemed beneath deep drifts to pant.

  And it stood there, brown and gray,
    In the bee-boom and the bloom,
  In the shadow and the ray,
    In the passion and perfume,
  Grave as age among the gay.

  Wild with laughter romped the clear
    Boyish voices round its walls;
  Rare wild-roses were the dear
    Girlish faces in its halls,
  Music-haunted all the year.

  Far before it meadows full
    Of green pennyroyal sank;
  Clover-dotted as with wool
    Here and there; with now a bank
  Hot of color; and the cool

  Dark-blue shadows unconfined
    Of the clouds rolled overhead:
  Clouds, from which the summer wind
    Blew with rain, and freshly shed
  Dew upon the flowerkind.

  Where through mint and gypsy-lily
    Runs the rocky brook away,
  Musical among the hilly
    Solitudes,—its flashing spray
  Sunlight-dashed or forest-stilly,—

  Buried in deep sassafras,
    Memory follows up the hill
  Still some cowbell's mellow brass,
    Where the ruined water-mill
  Looms, half-hid in cane and grass….

  Oh, the farmhouse! is it set
    On the hilltop still? 'mid musk
  Of the meads? where, violet,
    Deepens all the dreaming dusk,
  And the locust-trees hang wet.

  While the sunset, far and low,
    On its westward windows dashes
  Primrose or pomegranate glow;
    And above, in glimmering splashes,
  Lilac stars the heavens sow.

  Sleeps it still among its roses,—
    Oldtime roses? while the choir
  Of the lonesome insects dozes:
    And the white moon, drifting higher,
  O'er its mossy roof reposes—
  Sleeps it still among its roses?