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.