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Log Cabin Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Cabin in the Clearing by Benjamin S. Parker
  2. The Cabin Days of Kansas by Ed Blair
  3. The Place Where I Was Born by James W. Whilt
  4. The Old Log Cabin by John Henton Carter
  5. Lincoln by Annette Wynne
  6. The Passing of the Cabin by Horace Dumont Herr
  7. The Deserted Cabin by Ruby Archer
  8. The Old Log Church by Lizzie F. Baldy
  9. Song of the Woodchopper by Eugene J. Hall
  10. Father's Old Log Barn by John Mortimer
  11. Log Cabin Boys by John Henton Carter
  12. Before The Fire by James Edwin Campbell
  13. The Sod House on the Claim by Susannah Williams
  14. The Sod House on the Prairie by Ellen P. Allerton
  15. A Home Out West by Ellen P. Allerton
  16. The Homestead by Bliss Carman
  17. The Homestead by M. P. A. Crozier
  18. The Old Homestead by William Henry Venable
  19. Our Homestead by Phoebe Cary

  1. The Cabin in the Clearing

    by Benjamin S. Parker

    Backward gazing through the shadows.
    As the evening fades away,
    I perceive the little footprints,
    Where the morning sunlight lay,
    Warm and mellow, on the pathway
    Leading to the open door
    Of the cabin in the clearing,
    Where my soul reclines once more.

    Oh! that cabin in the clearing,
    Where my Mary came, a bride,
    Where our children grew to love us,
    Where our little Robbie died:
    Still in memory blooms the redbud
    By the doorway, and the breeze
    Tingles with the spicewood's odor
    And the catbird's melodies.

    And I mind the floor of puncheons,
    Rudely laid on joist and sill,
    And the fireplace shaped and beaten
    From the red clay on the hill;
    With the chimney standing outside,
    Like a blind man asking alms,
    Wrought of sticks and clay and fashioned
    By the builder's ready palms.

    Half way up the flue, wide-throated,
    Does the hickory crosstree rest,
    Whence depend the pot and kettle,
    Where the great fire blazes best.
    Oh! I smell the savory venison,
    Hear the hominy simmer low,
    As my Mary stirs the embers
    That were ashes long ago.

    Once again I hurry homeward,
    When the day of toil is o'er,
    And my heart leaps up in gladness,
    For in this wide open door,
    Mary in her homespun habit,
    With her hand above her eyes,
    Gazes all around the clearing
    Till my coming form she spies.

    'Tis for her I am a hunter,
    And the fleet deer's sudden bound
    Tells how swift and sure my aim is,
    Ere his life-tide dyes the ground;
    'Tis for her I am an angler,
    And the spotted beauties woo
    From their paradise of waters,
    Ere the sun has dried the dew.

    And the wild rose and the bluebell
    That I pluck with gentle care,
    Are for her who rules the cabin-
    Mary, of the raven hair;
    'Tis for her I smite the forest
    Day by day with myriad blows;
    'Tis for her the cornstalk tassels,
    And the golden pumpkin grows.

    Often, winding through the woodlands,
    Neighbors come with song and shout,
    Eager for a day of pleasure
    Where the latch-string hangeth out.
    And with ready hands assist us
    At our labors, while the zest
    Of our conversation heightens
    Till the sun goes down the west.

    Aye, and once again I see them,
    On a sad, sweet summer day
    When the robin on the maple
    Seems to sing his soul away;
    And the clearing swims around me
    In a tangled dream of woe,
    And my weeping Mary whispers,
    "Tell me why he had to go?"

    "Why he had to go?" O Heaven!
    "Did God want our little boy?"
    'Tis the old, unanswered question,
    Cankering in the heart of joy,
    And subduing many a pleasure,
    As I see those friends of old,
    Hiding tenderly our darling
    In the forest's virgin mold.

    Now, that cabin in the clearing
    Is but dust, blown here and there,
    Where the palpitating engines
    Breathe their darkness on the air;
    Where my forests towered in beauty,
    Now a smoky village stands,
    And the rows of factories cluster
    Grimly on my fertile lands.

    Scarcely room enough is left me
    For this double, clustering rose,
    Where the baby and its mother
    Side by side in earth repose;
    Soon the last fond trace will vanish
    Which proclaims that they have been;
    But no matter—heaven's gateway
    Opened wide to let them in.

    Yet with Mary oft I linger,
    Where the well-sweep slanteth low,
    Planning over all our labors,
    When to plant and what to sow,
    How to ride to Sunday meeting—
    Fixing on a proper day
    For the rolling and the quilting,
    And the young folks' evening play.

    "Eighty, and a memory only!"
    Is that what you speak of me?
    Well, the memory is a blessing,
    And its pictures fair to see;
    While the fairest and the sweetest
    Lingers with me evermore—
    'Tis the cabin in the clearing,
    And my Mary at the door.

  2. The Cabin Days of Kansas

    by Ed Blair

    In the cabin days of Kansas,
    Oh! 'twas great to live here then,
    When we heard the morning cackle
    Of the prairie chicken hen;
    And the drum like noise of roosters,
    Coming from the prairie near,
    In the early days of Kansas—
    Days that always will be dear.

    How we visited with neighbors,
    Living miles and miles away,
    In a bobsled or a wagon,
    For the trip, the entire day.
    How we welcomed all the strangers,
    As they drove up to the yard,
    And they shared our every comfort,
    Though the best sometimes was hard.

    In the twilight father's "fiddle"
    Used to pour the music sweet
    Of the "Devil's Dream" and others,
    While the foot ne'er lost a beat.
    And the "Sweet Tobacco Posey,"
    Alabama's dearest rose,
    Always came in for a feature
    Ere the evening would close,

    Oh! the old time songs he gave us—
    Could a child of his e'er roam?
    "Bobbie Burns," his favorite ballads,
    Best of all, "No Place Like Home."
    And the songs of war-time heroes,
    In each line a thrill of love
    For the Union Flag forever,
    On the ramparts far above.

    How the music soothed a youngster,
    As the creaking trundle bed,
    Cuddled me between the comforts,
    And the "Good Night" words were said,
    And I lay there drifting, dreaming,
    On the wings of peaceful sleep.
    With no thought of stern tomorrow's
    Climbing up Life's Hill so steep.

    "Turn your backs" would come the warning,
    As the women left the hearth,
    (Breaking up the happy circle
    'Round the fireplace) for their berth.
    Then the last was father's winding
    Of the old Seth Thomas clock,
    Like the katydid's false warning.
    Latch string in. Asleep his flock.

  3. The Place Where I Was Born

    by James W. Whilt

    There's a little old log cabin,
    And its walls have fallen down,
    Snow has broken down its rafters,
    Not one log that's left is sound.

    The brush obscures the doorway,
    Everything looks so forlorn,
    'Tis the little old log cabin,
    The place where I was born—

    Briers o'errun the pathway
    Which leads to the crystal spring,
    That cradled the tiny brooklet
    Where the oriole used to sing.

    The hills are fields and pastures
    Where I roamed when but a child;
    It was all unbroken forest,
    And it stretched out far and wild.

    The meadows ran in wavelets,
    When the wind so wild and free
    Blew o'er their level surface
    Like a green and billowy sea.

    There was childhood's shout and laughter
    Within that cabin small;
    But to me it was a palace,
    With wide and stately hall.

    Our pleasures there were sweeter
    Than a rose without a thorn,
    In that little old log cabin,—
    The place where I was born.

    Oh! the little old log cabin!
    Where the air was sweet and cool,
    Where our school-house was the forest,
    And we went to Nature's school;

    Could I but re-trace my footsteps
    Over life's uncertain road,
    Could I go back to that cabin,
    Lighter far would be my load.

  4. The Old Log Cabin

    by John Henton Carter

    The ol' log cabin's lef' alone, deserted now an' still;
    Nobody 'pears to care fur it, an' reckon never will;
    An' so I keep it fur myse'f, same way it wuz when we
    Moved over into our brand new house, like fine sassiety,
    An' here I come an' set an' think about the days 'at's past
    Till ol'-time frien's jes seem to take thar seats agin, an' ast
    About the news; an' then Melindy, she jes comes in, too,
    An' all the chil'en romp an' talk the way they ust to do.

    An', all at oncet, the fire 'at's bin put out this twenty year
    Sta'ts up agin, an' other things begin to reappear—
    The dog-ir'ns, an' the crane an' hooks, an' skillet an' co'n-pone
    A-bakin' on the boa'd the way it did in days 'at's gone;
    An', purty soon, thar comes a knock upon the ha'f-closed door,
    An' Uncle Abe, with saddle-bags, is here agin fur shore—
    The same tall fo'm, the hones' face, an' voice 'at ust to say:—
    "Jes drapt in, Jim, to git a snack an' pass the time o' day."

    An' then he looks aroun' an' sees the ladder standin' thar—
    The same one 'at we ust to use because we hed no sta'r;
    Then over in the corner, whar we kep' the cider jug—
    An', purty soon, I seem to hear that same ol' "gug, gug, gug!"
    An' then we both set down an' talk 'bout politics an' craps
    In Sangamon, an' cou'ts whar fo'ks still law an' hev the'r scraps;
    An', presently, Melindy comes an' says to us, us, says she,
    "Dinner's ready," an', o' cou'se, 'at suits ol' Abe an' me.

    Here in the middle o' the room the table ust to stan'—
    Remember, jes' ez plain ez day, how 'twuz we ust to plan—
    Melindy an' ol' Abe an' me come fust—the chil'en last;
    An', talk o' l'arnin'! orto hear the blessin' he could ast!
    An' then to see the way be et! Melindy ust to say
    She alus liked to cook fur fo'ks 't enjoyed it that a-way.
    He'd he'p hisse'f to chicken pie, an' mashed potaters, too,
    An' pass his cup up offen, ez ol'-timers ust to do.

    Well, we wuz makin' hist'ry in them ol' days, I 'low,
    Although we didn't know it then the way we know it now.
    Who'd ever think 'at Nancy Hanks 'ould be so talked about,
    An' Sangamon 'ould hev the fines' monument 'at's out?
    Jes does me good to steddy 'bout the times 'at's passed away,
    When fo'ks done things because they should, an' not jes fur the pay;
    When neighbors ust to all tu'n out to he'p us cut our wheat,
    An' gals wuz kissed, not grumbled at, when things run sho't to eat.

    Now ev'rything's so citified—so awful fine an' nice;
    Spring water ain't half cool enough—they hev to hev thar ice!
    An' place o' young fo'ks gittin' up 'fore daylight ez they did
    When I wuz young, we call 'em now 'bout breakfas'-time instid.
    The birds don't seem to sing no mo' the way they ust to do—
    I reckon they've foun' out thar tunes air out o' fashion, too.
    Them operys an' sonaters 'at's jes the same ez Greek
    To fo'ks ez likes plain music—a-ham'rin' at us all the week.

    An', then, fo'ks ain't ez neighborly ez what they ust to be—
    Dun't ever come to borrer things when they hev company,
    But hitch right up an' drive to town an' lay in a new bill,
    An' never think o' swappin' meat when time comes roun' to kill.
    An' huskin's, too, an' parin' bees, an' spellin' schools no more
    Air heard of like they ust to be when we wuz young an' pore;
    Nor "blin' man's buff," nor "heavy, heavy hangs over your head,"
    An' "hol' fas' all I give to you," an' nothin's here instead.

    Same way, too, with the fiddle, an' the good ol' country dence—
    No use fur us to know a step—we never git a chence
    To show it—nothin' but the waltz an' schottische an' thar like.
    An' that pianner music's heard from Sangamon to Pike.
    O' cou'se I know the worl' hez changed, an' we're a-growin' ol',
    Belongin' to an age 'at's past—our story hez bin tol'.
    But while I live an' hol' the deeds to this here bottom lan',
    A double section, too, at that, this hut hez got to stan'.

  5. Lincoln

    by Annette Wynne

    A log cabin, rude and rough—
    This was house and home enough
    For one small boy; there in the chimney place
    With glowing face
    The eager young eyes learned to trace
    Staunch old tales of staunch old men;
    In the firelight there and then
    The soul of Lincoln grew—
    And no one knew!
    Only the great and bitter strife
    Of later days brought into life
    Great deeds that blossomed in the gloom
    Of that dim shadowy firelit room.

  6. The Passing of the Cabin

    by Horace Dumont Herr

    The little log cabin
    In the edge of the wood
    Stands lone and forsaken
    Thro' sunshine and flood.

    The oaks throw their shadows,
    And the cottonwoods too,
    Upon the old roof-boards,
    And rains filter through.

    The fox-squirrel climbs o'er it,
    And he gnaws there his nut;
    There oft the quail perches,
    And whistles his note.

    There saucy woodpeckers
    With their hammers o£t beat
    On logs old and wormy,
    Then crow and retreat.

    The window is boarded,
    And the chinking drops out;
    Nailed up is the fireplace,
    And weeds grow about.

    The door with its latch-string
    From its wood-hinge is torn,
    On hinges of metal
    Another is borne.

    Near by is a railway,
    And behind is a road;
    But fronts to the forest
    This hut of the wood.

    The cabin is haunted.
    But be free of your fears,
    'Tis haunted with visions
    Of brave pioneers.

    Draw near this log temple,
    Open softly its door;
    Hang wasp-nests above you,
    Old traps crowd the floor.

    A shell that's left stranded
    By an outgoing tide,
    Stands mutely the cabin
    The clearing beside.

    Without and within it
    Are the marks of decay;
    The hut, like its master,
    Is passing away.

    The rays of the morning
    The woods veil away,
    But sunset glows o'er it
    At close of the day.

  7. The Deserted Cabin

    by Ruby Archer

    Lone, it lingers on the mountain
    With no sign or sound of life;
    No sweet, happy, household cadence,
    Laugh of child or song of wife.
    How it stares adown the valley
    With those hard and hollow eyes,
    As if waiting, empty-hearted,
    Hopeless, for some sweet surprise.
    All the doors have broken hinges,
    Rails have fallen from the fence;
    High the dove-cote leans, abandoned,
    Lonely birds have wandered hence.
    Mosses creep through every crevice,
    Sunshine bars the vacant floor,
    And a yellow ox-eyed daisy
    Peeps in wonder through the door.
    Yonder windmill turning, turning,
    In the old accustomed way,
    Feels a sympathy in moving
    With the winds that sigh alway:
    "We have lost the waving tresses
    Of a little golden head.
    We can find no touch responsive.—
    All but memory is dead."

  8. The Old Log Church

    by Lizzie F. Baldy

    In the primitive days that have long past away,
    When the sun shone as brightly as sun shines to-day,
    Here the old church was built, and the settlement small
    Held the stanch frontier heart, that would answer the call
    To the volunteer ranks, when the foeman was near.
    Leaping into their saddles as swift as the deer,
    Pursuing the red warrior o'er plateau and dale,
    Until night threw around them her dark star-gemmed vail,
    Like a benison of peace bringing rest everywhere,
    While the worshippers knelt in their quaint church of prayer.

    Old Time holds his scepter, and beneath his stern sway
    A city looms up in her stately array;
    New churches have taken the place of the old,
    New worshipers worship within the new fold,
    Whose spires point to heaven; here the rich and the gay
    Kneel low at their altars: do they all kneel to pray
    With the reverence for God marking all of their moods,
    As when the old church stood mid nature's solitudes;
    When the faith of the people had hallowed the sod,
    And they raised this rude temple to worship their God?

    No fine garb of fashion, no carpeted aisles;
    No cloak of vast riches, from which guilt oft smiles;
    No soft cushioned pews in which sinners may rest,
    Unheeding the future in the present's bequest;
    No grand organ music, no fashionable choir,
    But they sang the old tunes with a heartfelt desire.
    The swift flowing river rolling down to the sea
    Oft caught up the refrain in her wild minstrelsy;
    And the wide answering paean went up on high,
    Till the echo hath flown like birds to the sky.
    The church is still there and the river flows on,
    But the people who built it. Oh! where have they gone?

    Many bridges hang over the river's dark wave,
    Progress laughs at the failures she hides in the grave;
    Her bidding the iron horse obeys with a bound,
    His track like a girdle spans the continent round;
    The lightning of heaven flashing o'er the wire,
    Brings the news of a people as a single desire.
    And here Commerce, twin sister, asserts her bold sway,
    While success crowns her efforts with laurels each day,
    But the little log church stands deserted, alone,
    Like some ancient relic whose daytime hath flown.

    Oh! church as you stand in your loneliness now,
    Hath the dark hand of death pressed each worshiper's brow?
    Did the sunlight of peace shine with joy on each face,
    As they knelt round thy altar to ask for His grace?
    Our God sends his blessing in hamlet and hall,
    He sees not their riches, but heeds each low call;
    The church may be humble, or stately and grand,
    The last to be built, or the first in the land.
    The old log church may crumble to dust bye-and-bye,
    But God keeps the record of each up on high.

  9. Song of the Woodchopper

    by Eugene J. Hall

    Out in the bleak, cold woods he stands,
    Swinging his axe with sturdy hands;
    Sharply the blue-jays near him call,
    Softly the snow-flakes round him fall;
    Gayly he sings,
    As his axe he swings,
    "What care I for the ice or snow,—
    Here away, there away, down you go."

    Loud the winds through the tree-tops sigh;
    Far the chips from his keen axe fly;
    Fiercely the tree-trunks, gray and brown,
    Totter, sway, and come tumbling down.
    Gayly he sings,
    As his axe he swings,
    "What care I for the ice or snow,—
    Here away, there away, down you go.

    "There's time to work and time to sleep;
    There's time to laugh and time to weep;
    The chips must fly, the trees must fall
    To feed the fire that warms us all."
    Gayly he sings,
    As his axe he swings,
    "What care I for the ice or snow,—
    Here away, there away, down you go."

  10. Father's Old Log Barn

    by John Mortimer

    Dear relic of the silent past,
    Old barn, my father’s pride,
    When such as thou graced hill and dale
    O’er all the woodland wide.

    Fondly on thy last remnant still
    My partial eyes are bent
    Though to the highway passer by
    It is no ornament.

    For half a hundred years and more
    How bravely didst thou stand
    Until it seemed that time alone
    Could blot thee from the land.

    No flying brand from forest fire
    Nor lightning’s kindling stroke
    Bade thy strong rafters and stout walls
    Go up in flame and smoke.

    No sudden storm whose rending power
    Wrecked many modern kin—
    One breathless day at noontide hour
    We heard thy roof crash in.

    The roof that in the early days
    Sheltered my father's grain
    When through the doors the long-horned steeds
    Drew in the loaded wain,

    And oft, well shielded from the cold
    In homespun coat of mail,
    I sat within thy wondrous walls
    And watched the sounding flail.

    The old horsepower machine shall hum
    And shake thy roof no more
    Nor boys crawl out with egg-filled hat
    From 'neath thy stout plank floor,

    That floor is gone and thy old walls
    Are disappearing fast
    And soon thou shalt exist alone
    In visions of the past.

    But ne'er while I can think a thought
    Or spin the bairns a yarn
    Shall I forget long vanished days
    And father's old log barn.

  11. Log Cabin Boys

    by John Henton Carter

    Log Cabin Boys—here's a few:
    Where'd you get Lincoln?—and, say, who
    Sent you Grant, and Sheridan, too;
    Corwin and Old Tippecanoe;
    General Jackson, who pulled through,
    At New Orleans, the Boy's in Blue
    When all those red-coat British flew?
    And Tecumseh, who led the crew
    That cut the brave old South in two
    And hoisted the old flag anew?
    And Whitelaw Reid and John Hay grew
    Up the same way. The same is true
    Of Garfield the assassin slew.
    And, cracky! there's McKinley—whew!
    Well, these are only just a few
    Log Cabin Boys (but guess they'll do),
    Who helped to pull the country through
    And leave it unimpaired to you.

  12. Before The Fire

    by James Edwin Campbell

    Before the wide-mouthed hearth I sit,
    While rudely roars the wind outdoor;
    Upon the walls strange shadows flit
    Or dervish-like dance on the floor;
    Now softened to a minor strain,
    As if it came from far away,
    As if the wail of souls in pain,
    The long imprisoned sunbeams' lay.

    For aeons since when young was Time,
    And Earth still wore the flush of Youth,
    Long ere the birth of Man and Crime,
    And dark-browed Hate and tear-stained Ruth,
    The tyrant Sun imprisoned in
    The heart of oak and ash his beams
    To expiate some unknown sin —
    Some woodsprite told me in my dreams.

    The flames that up the chimney race
    And clap with glee their red, red hands,
    Or snap their fingers in my face,
    Or 'sault the wall in storming bands,
    Are sunbeams bright but now set free
    From centuries of prison dark —
    A spirit moves each flame I see,
    A sunbeam's soul is in each spark.

  13. Sod House Poems

  14. The Sod House on the Claim

    by Susannah Williams

    Now come dear children and I'll tell
    About the mansion where we dwell;
    It is a sod house on the flat,
    And we are staying now in that.

    Now I will tell you how 'tis made,
    The sod is cut with plow and spade,
    Some two feet long and one foot wide.
    and then are laid down side by side.

    The next round now as up we go
    Is laid on crosswise in a row;
    (They lay the sod across that way
    So that it will be sure to stay.)

    When high enough the walls are done
    And they then roll a huge log on.
    The gable-ends they then fill out,
    And trim the structure round about.

    Our ridge-pole is a cottonwood log
    Some sixteen inches through,
    And on this pole the rafters lay
    With small brush next in view.

    Now on this brush they lay more sod
    To make it snug and firm.
    And then on that they throw more dirt
    To keep it dry and warm.

    It now appears so very nice,
    It keeps us snug and warm.
    It shelters us from wintry blasts
    And from the frozen storm.

    Now then inside they go to work.
    They cut and trim the wall.
    Then over that spread lime and sand
    So that the dirt won't fall.

    There's one thing more for you to know
    That I will try to tell.
    The windows are so very nice
    In this place where we dwell.

    Up from the floor they're three feet high
    (That is up to the sill)
    And then the wall is cut around
    The space the windows fill.

    Now then these windows are so nice
    (They look that way to me).
    And they afford abundant light
    For all within to see.

    Our floor it was but common earth,
    'Twas here before we came
    And on it then the grass did grow
    For us to walk upon.

    But we have got a pine floor now
    and doing very well.
    But how much longer we will stay
    I really cannot tell.

    There's one thing more I have to fear
    Snakes and lizards both are here.
    With other reptiles not a few
    That frequently appear in view.

    I've penned these verses now for you.
    Well knowing they are strictly true.
    And after you have read them through
    I hope you'll think that they will do.

  15. The Sod House on the Prairie

    The Homestead and Building of the Barbed Wire Fence
    The Homestead and Building of the Barbed Wire Fence
    by John Steuart Curry
    by Ellen P. Allerton

    A low sod house, a broad green prairie,
    And stately ranks of bannered corn;—
    'Twas there I took my dark-eyed Mary,
    And there our darling boy was born.

    The walls were low, the place was homely,
    But Mary sang from morn till night.
    The place beneath her touch grew comely;
    Her cheerful presence made it bright.

    Oh, life was sweet beyond all measure!
    No hour was dull, no day was long;
    Each task was easy, toil was pleasure,
    For love and hope were fresh and strong.

    How oft we sat at eve, foretelling
    The glories of that wide, new land!
    And gayly planned our future dwelling—
    For low sod house, a mansion grand.

    Alas! we little know how fleeting
    The joy that falls to human lot.
    While unseen hands were dirges beating,
    We smiled secure and heard them not.

    One day Death came and took my Mary;
    Another, and the baby died.
    And near the sod house on the prairie
    I laid my darlings, side by side.

    I could not stay. My heart was weary,
    And life a load too hard to bear.
    That low sod house was dreary, dreary,
    For love and hope lay buried there.

  16. A Home out West

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    A "Prairie schooner," creeping slow,
    Away-worn, jaded household band,
    In eager voices speaking low—
    Thus enter we the "Promised land."
    Behind us now the river's tide,
    Rolls dark and murk, deep and wide.


    A warm May day; a sweet soft rain
    On a green prairie falling fast;
    A stopping of the creeping wane,
    And the glad cry, "we are home at last."
    After long weeks of travel sore,
    The goal is won; we ask no more.

    Home! With our roof the dripping sky,
    Our floor the rainsoaked prairie's breast!
    Through all the wastes that round us lie,
    In wild, luxuriant verdure dressed,
    No tree extends its friendly bough,
    We seek no track of spade or plow.


    A year has fled. What wondrous change
    Has passed this way? What sorcery,
    What silent magic, swift and strange,
    Has wrought such wonders? Come and see!
    Where are the green wastes, soaked with rain?
    You seek them? You shall seek in vain.

    Spring smiles again; the sunbeams play
    On gabled roof and crystal pane.
    Spring smiles again; and skies of May
    Bend o'er broad fields of waving grain.
    Here are young orchards; and the breeze
    Bends the lithe limbs of forest trees.

    The spring rains beat on snowy walls,
    Comely, though plain, snug built and strong;
    Through vine wreathed windows sunshine falls,
    With cheerful smile, the whole day long;
    And happy faces, fresh and bright,
    Are gathered around the lamps at night.

    Our prairie home is sweet and dear;
    The deep rich soil holds honest wealth,
    The airs we breathe are pure and clear;
    The free, strong winds waft life and health.
    Here dwells content from day to day;
    So—let the great world go its way

  17. Homestead Poems

  18. The Homestead

    Oh, be merciful and fond
    To the house that gave
    All its best to shelter love,

    – Bliss Carman
    The Homestead
    by Bliss Carman

    Here we came when love was young.
    Now that love is old,
    Shall we leave the floor unswept
    And the hearth acold?

    Here the hill-wind in the dusk,
    Wandering to and fro,
    Moves the moonflowers, like a ghost
    Of the long ago.

    Here from every doorway looks
    A remembered face,
    Every sill and panel wears
    A familiar grace.

    Let the windows smile again
    To the morning light,
    And the door stand open wide
    When the moon is bright.

    Let the breeze of twilight blow
    Through the silent hall,
    And the dreaming rafters hear
    How the thrushes call.

    Oh, be merciful and fond
    To the house that gave
    All its best to shelter love,
    Built when love was brave!

    Here we came when love was young,
    Now that love is old,
    Never let its day be lone,
    Nor its heart acold!

  19. The Homestead

    by M. P. A. Crozier

    The years, like humming birds,
    Just poised a moment on the wing,
    To sip the nectar from the cup
    Of life's sweet offering;

    The homestead's old familiar halls,
    The grassy meadow where I played,
    The orchard with its melting fruit,
    And soft refreshing shade;

    The blacksmith-shop where, all day long,
    My noble father toiled and sang,
    Where in the morning and at eve,
    The music of the anvil rang;

    The garden with its spreading vines,
    Its roses and its daffodils;
    The dark old forest in the east;
    Beyond the heaven-aspiring hills.

  20. The Old Homestead

    by William Henry Venable

    Enshrined among roses
    The Homestead reposes
    With vines mantled o'er;
    Ground-ivy and clover
    Are running all over
    The stone at the door.

    Pinks, lilies, are blowing,
    Blue violets showing
    Gold hearts to the June;
    Bees going and coming
    Keep evermore humming
    Their Hyblean tune.

    'Twas here that I wasted
    Youth's flower and tasted
    Love's first honey-dew;
    A boy here I slumbered,
    By care unencumbered,
    Long, balmy nights through.

    The wood-birds each morning
    Gave musical warning
    For shadows to fly;
    Their rhapsody choral
    Foretold the auroral
    First flush of the sky.

    With rising emotion
    Akin to devotion
    The scene I behold;—
    With fond recollections
    Of tender affections
    Too sweet to be told.

  21. Our Homestead

    My father's look, and my mother's smile,—
    They are in my heart to-night.

    - Phoebe Cary
    Our Homestead
    by Phoebe Cary

    Our old brown homestead reared its walls,
    From the wayside dust aloof,
    Where the apple-boughs could almost cast
    Their fruitage on its roof:
    And the cherry-tree so near it grew,
    That when awake I've lain,
    In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs,
    As they creaked against the pane:
    And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees!
    I've seen my little brothers rocked
    In their tops by the summer breeze.

    The sweet-brier under the window-sill,
    Which the early birds made glad,
    And the damask rose by the garden fence
    Were all the flowers we had.
    I've looked at many a flower since then,
    Exotics rich and rare,
    That to other eyes were lovelier,
    But not to me so fair;
    O those roses bright, O those roses bright!
    I have twined them with my sister's locks,
    That are hid in the dust from sight!

    We had a well, a deep old well,
    Where the spring was never dry,
    And the cool drops down from the mossy stones
    Were falling constantly:
    And there never was water half so sweet
    As that in my little cup,
    Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep,
    Which my father's hand set up;
    And that deep old well, O that deep old well!
    I remember yet the splashing sound
    Of the bucket as it fell.

    Our homestead had an ample hearth,
    Where at night we loved to meet;
    There my mother's voice was always kind,
    And her smile was always sweet;
    And there I've sat on my father's knee,
    And watched his thoughtful brow,
    With my childish hand in his raven hair,—
    That hair is silver now!
    But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light!
    And my father's look, and my mother's smile,—
    They are in my heart to-night.

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