I can see a low white farmhouse
On the slope of Mannin’s hills
And a garden, scented, tangled there, and wild.
I can see its winking window panes,
Geraniums on the sills,
The cattle in the orchard meek and mild.
I can see it all so vividly and oh, my memory thrills
with the rapture of an unforgotten child.
I can see the old farm buildings
In their livery of gray
and the farmyard which is empty but for weed.
Right behind it is the haggard
Though there isn’t any hay
For there are no horses left today to feed.
I can see the ruined cornmill where the threshers worked all day
with golden sheaves of harvest and their seed.
I can see the nettles flourishing,
The wormwood and the dock,
The mint and parsley rollicking apace
The gooseberries and currants flirt
With haughty hollyhock
And fuchsias flaunt their frilly skirts with grace.
There within the low-beamed kitchen ticked a tall grandfather clock,
But the fingers never move now on its face.
I can see the collies working
With the sheep, young Ralph and Fan,
I can hear the clucking hens around the door.
The mornings there are misty,
Hung with gems the spiders span
And mushrooms weave a spell we can’t ignore.
There is jelly in the parlour for the Sunday preacher-man
And a crack to peer through in the bedroom floor.
There are pictures in my mind’s eye
Moving on my secret screen.
That will never, while I live, completely fade
For Rebecca, yes, and Cissie
Uncle Dick and Ellen veen
Are moving still among that fond parade.
And though half a hundred years have passed the grass is fresh and green
Where summers long ago we children played.