the folks whom we visit, but once in a while

those friends who are far, far away,

may be thoughtful and generous indeed to a fault

and kindness itself every day.

not even the hills with the mist on the top

and the sun shooting flames ’cross the loam,

can make me forget, nor still the wild fret

in my heart for the place i call home.

the valleys like eden are misty and deep:

they are washed with the dews of the morn.

they but serve to depress me and make me a prey

to longings both sad and forlorn.

the lilt of the trees and the song of the birds

once so cheery have sobered their tone,

for my heartstrings are tied, to a little fireside

in a place that i love to call home.