THE OLD FARM
DORMERED and verandaed, cool, Locust-girdled, on the hill; Stained with weather-wear, and dull-Streak'd with lichens; every sill Thresholding the beautiful;
I can see it standing there, Brown above the woodland deep, Wrapped in lights of lavender, By the warm wind rocked asleep, Violet shadows everywhere.
I remember how the Spring, Liberal-lapped, bewildered its Acred orchards, murmuring, Kissed to blossom; budded bits Where the wood-thrush came to sing.
Barefoot Spring, at first who trod, Like a beggermaid, adown The wet woodland; where the god, With the bright sun for a crown And the firmament for rod,