Thanksgiving

From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 28, 1912.
By W. D. Nesbit.
 

 A little road that winds its way
     Around the hill
 The old, old trees that swing and sway
     The crumbling mill
 The drowsing fields where drifts of snow
     The rambling lane
 The heart that thrills all quickly; so
     We’re home again!
 
 And old-time songs we had forgot—
     This is our shame
 Hushed speech of friends who now are not
     The ruddy flame
 Of great logs in the fireplace there
     And sparks that fly
 The creak of an old rocking chair
     A smile, a sigh.
 
 To gaze out through the frosted pane
     And trace the ways
 We rambled in the sun and rain
     In olden days
 To hear the old gate click, and all
     The olden sounds
 To sit and silently recall
     Life’s varied rounds.
 
 To see the twilight creeping down
     From out the sky
 To see the twinkling lights of town
     To start reply
 To see gray hairs where none were then
     And wrinkles, too—
 To think how has the world of men
     Held me and you!
 
 And to be glad for all of this
     For all the glow
 That lives to bless us from what is
     The long ago—
 To be glad that the wandering ways
     O’er land and foam
 Have led us through the circling days
     And brought us home!