LISTEN, father, while I tell you of a dream I had last night;
For it was so sweet my childhood home was painted in my sight.
’Twas the same old frame house, father, hidden by the same old trees,
Apple, cherry, quince and locust, talking in the same old breeze.
On the walk I found the cowslip, stolen from “The Old Ravine,”
And the blue-bell, and the columbine—how near my heart they lean.
Roses, red as any furnace flame, about me seemed to grow.
Roses pink as maiden blushes, roses pure and white as snow.
All around the yard I wandered, oh! so long I can not tell,