My Old Home
The snow is deep upon the ground;
'Tis twilight as a winter day is done;
A storm stirs all the air around.
A snow filled road is here; across a field
A long farmhouse I dimly see
By dismal snowdrifts almost half concealed,
While snow gusts fan it drearily.
The windows' upper portions dimly shine,
The lower hide in drifts of white;
The chimneys' smoke starts not to curl and twine,
But, sidewise snatched, it fades from sight.
Do lively human interests center here
Where northern blasts ungently blow,
And all seems bleak and void of grace and cheer,
And like a dreary grave of snow ?
Ah yes, fine-grained, true-visioned souls are here,
Chaste hearts, with aspirations bright,
Unsluggish minds, with thoughts undimmed and
And sturdy faith in God and right.
A shrine is this where weary hearts find rest;
A fount that satisfies and cheers;
A gleaming torch from which the pilgrim guest
Takes light to brighten all his years.
The house has crumbled but the picture stays;
Nor has the grace, the beauty, gone
Of that dear home; it lives, a theme of praise,
To help men up and on.
A multitude to that dear, blessed source
A holy helpfulness can trace;
And future ages, in their stately course,
Shall from it gain an added grace.
___John Edward Everett
Quillings In Verse
John Edward Everett
(Smith Center: ___. 1912)