But a stranger’s foot has crossed the sill.
There is the barn—and, as of yore,
I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallows throng,
And hear the peewee’s mournful song;
But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof—
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.
There is the orchard—the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run,