Where the Children used to Play

The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,     And filled it is with plenty and to spare,     But we are lonely here in life's decline,     Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:     We look across the gold     Of the harvests, as of old -     The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay;     But most we turn our gaze,     As with eyes of other days,     To the orchard where the children used to play.     O from our life's full measure     And rich hoard of worldly treasure     We often turn our weary eyes away,     And hand in hand we wander     Down the old path winding yonder     To the orchard where the children used to play.     Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;     The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'ver;     The grove's a paradise of singing birds -     The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door;     Yet lonely, lonely still,     Let us prosper as we will,     Our old hearts seem so empty everyway -     We can only through a mist     See the faces we have kissed     In the orchard where the children used to play.     O from our life's full measure     And rich hoard of worldly treasure     We often turn our weary eyes away,     And hand in hand we wander     Down the old path winding yonder     To the orchard where the children used to play.