(At the Old Homestead)
I tread the paths of earlier times
Where all my steps were set to rhymes.
I gaze on scenes I used to see
When dreaming of a vague To be.
I walk in ways made bright of old
By hopes youth-limned in hues of gold.
But lo! those hopes of future bliss
Seem dull beside the joy that IS.
My noonday skies are far more bright
Than those dreamed of in morning’s light,
And life gives me more joys to hold
Than all it promised me of old.