The Homeplace

Forlorn and grieving, it now stands, Uncared for by the owner’s hands. The hedge is ragged, grass grown long. No laughter there, or lilting song.

Within, its floors are bare and dusty. The air is stale and cold and musty. Its sagging front door creaks and groans, Small boys have wounded it with stones.

Thus stands the old place, haunted, grim. Mute testimony of our vagrant whim-- New horizons beckoned to our hearts one day And so we left,---the house now pines away.