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.

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