The low-eaved porch supports the clinging vine, While thro’ the roof the summer rain-drops fall; Upon the floor a rusty hook and line, A well-worn bench and silence over all.
A well-sweep, overgrown with moss and mould, Shelters a hornet’s nest within it’s nook; Above the running waters clear and cold An old tin dipper hangs upon it’s hook.
The dull-edged scythe swings idly in the sun, A grindstone crumbles ’neath the maple’s shade; A cart-wheel and the faded coat of one Who long ago beneath the sod was laid.
Tho’ gone the smile of each familiar face And merry voices break no more the calm, Yet Memory sweet shall hallow all the place And flood with peace the old deserted farm.
SEED THOUGHTS.
The celebrated Author pens His thorough thoughts from depths of mind, And they are not in proper place Until the depths of our’s they find.
The wisest reader may perceive, In writings that shall ever live, A reflex of his own wise thoughts That to the world he did not give;
But to the mind of him who learns, They are as seeds of knowledge brought That soon take root and rarefy Into a whole great field of thought.