THE HOUSE IN THE LANE.
Warm and bright the sun is shining
On the farmhouse far away,
Like a pleasant picture lying
Bright before my gaze all day.
And I see the tall, gray chimney,
And the steep roof sloping down;
And far off the spires rise dimly
Of the old New Hampshire town.
And the little footpath creeping
Through the long grass to the door,
And the hopvine's tresses sweeping
The low roof and lintels o'er.
And the barn with loft and rafter,
Weather beaten, scarred, and wide—
And the tree I used to clamber,
With the well-sweep on one side.
And beyond that wide old farmyard,
And the bridge across the stream,
I can see the ancient orchard,
Where the russets thickly gleam,
And the birds sing just as sweetly,
In the branches knarled and low,
As when autumns there serenely
Walked a hundred years ago.
And upon the east are beaming
The salt meadows to the sea,
Or the hillside pastures, dreaming
Of October pleasantly.
On the west, like lanterns glimmer
Thick the ears of corn to-day,
That I sowed along each furrow,
Singing as I went, last May.
So it hangs, that vision tender,
Over all my loss and pain,
Where the maples flame their splendor
By the old house in the lane.