When all the world was Mayday, And all the skies were blue, Young innocence made playday Among the flowers and dew; Then all of life was Mayday, And clouds were none or few.
When all the world was Summer, And morn shone overhead, Love was the sweet newcomer Who led youth forth to wed; Then all of life was Summer, And clouds were golden red.
When earth was all October, And days were gray with mist, On woodways, sad and sober, Grave memory kept her tryst; Then life was all October, And clouds were twilight-kissed.
Now all the world's December, And night is all alarm, Above the last dim ember Grief bends to keep him warm; Now all of life's December, And clouds are driven storm.
Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens, Their old rock-fences, that our day inherits; Their doors, 'round which the great trees stand like wardens; Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.
I see them gray among their ancient acres, Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,-- Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,-- Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.
Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies-- Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers-- Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers, And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.
I love their orchards where the gay woodpecker Flits, flashing o'er you, like a winged jewel; Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.
Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love they touch me, through the years that sever, With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever.
There is a field, that leans upon two hills, Foamed o'er with flowers and twinkling with clear rills; That in its girdle of wild acres bears The anodyne of rest that cures all cares; Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent And fragrance--as in some old instrument Sweet chords--calm things, that nature's magic spell Distils from heaven's azure crucible, And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well. There lies the path, they say-- Come, away! come, away!