For the house was of measure far more than its worth.
’Twas the mem’ries that ever recurred for its hearth
That made it so precious. I love to recall
The long row of windows, the doorway and hall,
And fondly thought lingers—in fancy I see
The trees that seem nodding and laughing to me.
The farm swept the valley to right and to left
For a mile to the hill where the quarry was cleft.
From the house to the hill it was level and low,
And oft in the spring-time the flood-tide would grow