Lonely Homestead

The hills remember songs our father sang

When riding range before the break of day.

The winding trails where happy laughter rang

Are silent now, yet all along the way

The same wild roses, radiant and gay,

Hold modest faces to the sun. The sound

Of playing children in the twilight's gray

Is heard no more. Nostalgic meadow-ground

Awaits with hope for eager steps to bound

Across its greening carpet to make sweet

Its longing hours. The loved old home is gowned

In loneliness and yearns for children's feet

To skip across its floors. The years speed fast

Leaving the homestead dreaming of the past.