MY heart made pictures all to-day
Of the old homestead far away.
It is the middle of the May,
And the moon is shining full and bright—
The middle of May, and the middle of night.

Darkly against the southern wall,
Three cherry-trees, so smooth and tall,
Their shadows cast—we planted all,
One morning in March that is long gone by,—
My brother Carolan and I.

I hear the old clock tick and tick
In the small parlor, see the thick
Unfeathered wings of bats, that stick
To moon-lit windows, see the mouse,
Noiseless, peering about the house.

I'm going up the winding stairs,
I'm counting all the vacant chairs,
And sadly saying, “They were theirs,—
The brothers and sisters who no more
Go in and out at the homestead door.”

Hear my sweet-voiced mother say,
“Leave, children, leave all work to-day,
And go into the fields and play.”
And the birds are singing where'er we go—
How beautiful, to be dreaming so!

And yet, while I am dreaming on,
I know my playmates all are gone;
That none the hope of our childhood keep,
That some are weary, and some asleep,
And that I from the homestead am far away
This middle of night, in the middle of May.