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James Whitcomb Riley - A Song Of Long Ago
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A song of Long Ago:
  Sing it lightly--sing it low--
  Sing it softly--like the lisping of the lips we used to know
  When our baby-laughter spilled
  From the glad hearts ever filled
  With music blithe as robin ever trilled!

  Let the fragrant summer-breeze,
  And the leaves of locust-trees,
  And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees,
  All palpitate with glee,
  Till the happy harmony
  Brings back each childish joy to you and me.

  Let the eyes of fancy turn
  Where the tumbled pippins burn
  Like embers in the orchard`s lap of tangled grass and fern,--
  There let the old path wind
  In and out and on behind
  The cider-press that chuckles as we grind.

  Blend in the song the moan
  Of the dove that grieves alone,
  And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble`s drowsy drone;
  And the low of cows that call
  Through the pasture-bars when all
  The landscape fades away at evenfall.

  Then, far away and clear,
  Through the dusky atmosphere,
  Let the wailing of the kildee be the only sound we hear:
  O sad and sweet and low
  As the memory may know
  Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago!
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