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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420715" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Homestead</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">AGAINST the wooded hills it stands,<br>Ghost of a dead home, staring through<br>Its broken lights on wasted lands<br>Where old-time harvests grew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unploughed, unsown, by scythe unshorn,<br>The poor, forsaken farm-fields lie,<br>Once rich and rife with golden corn<br>And pale green breadths of rye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of healthful herb and flower bereft,<br>The garden plot no housewife keeps;<br>Through weeds and tangle only left,<br>The snake, its tenant, creeps.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A lilac spray, still blossom-clad,<br>Sways slow before the empty rooms;<br>Beside the roofless porch a sad<br>Pathetic red rose blooms.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His track, in mould and dust of drouth,<br>On floor and hearth the squirrel leaves,<br>And in the fireless chimney's mouth<br>His web the spider weaves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The leaning barn, about to fall,<br>Resounds no more on husking eves;<br>No cattle low in yard or stall,<br>No thresher beats his sheaves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So sad, so drear! It seems almost<br>Some haunting Presence makes its sign;<br>That down yon shadowy lane some ghost<br>Might drive his spectral kine!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O home so desolate and lorn!<br>Did all thy memories die with thee?<br>Were any wed, were any born,<br>Beneath this low roof-tree?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whose axe the wall of forest broke,<br>And let the waiting sunshine through?<br>What goodwife sent the earliest smoke<br>Up the great chimney flue?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Did rustic lovers hither come?<br>Did maidens, swaying back and forth<br>In rhythmic grace, at wheel and loom,<br>Make light their toil with mirth?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Did child feet patter on the stair?<br>Did boyhood frolic in the snow?<br>Did gray age, in her elbow chair,<br>Knit, rocking to and fro?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The murmuring brook, the sighing breeze,<br>The pine's slow whisper, cannot tell;<br>Low mounds beneath the hemlock-trees<br>Keep the home secrets well.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cease, mother-land, to fondly boast<br>Of sons far off who strive and thrive,<br>Forgetful that each swarming host<br>Must leave an emptier hive.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O wanderers from ancestral soil,<br>Leave noisome mill and chaffering store:<br>Gird up your loins for sturdier toil,<br>And build the home once more!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come back to bayberry-scented slopes,<br>And fragrant fern, and ground-nut vine;<br>Breathe airs blown over holt and copse<br>Sweet with black birch and pine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What matter if the gains are small<br>That life's essential wants supply?<br>Your homestead's title gives you all<br>That idle wealth can buy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All that the many-dollared crave,<br>The brick-walled slaves of 'Change and mart,<br>Lawns, trees, fresh air, and flowers, you have,<br>More dear for lack of art.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your own sole masters, freedom-willed,<br>With none to bid you go or stay,<br>Till the old fields your fathers tilled,<br>As manly men as they!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With skill that spares your toiling hands,<br>And chemic aid that science brings,<br>Reclaim the waste and outworn lands,<br>And reign thereon as kings</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420715" data-title="The Homestead de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="AGAINST the wooded hills it stands,
Ghost of a dead home, staring through
Its broken lights on wasted lands
Where old-time harvests grew.

Unploughed, unsown, by scythe unshorn,
The poor, forsaken farm-fields lie,
Once rich and rife with golden co..."></div>
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