In Dutch Nèck did my pastor sire
A farm long own of moderate yield,
Where, than the level loam land higher,
There was a forty-acre field;
He planted on its front plateau
All ornamental trees of shade
That on our lawn in time they'd grow,
When he, by thrift, a home had made.

And many years, when he was dead,
I came to see that empty lawn;
The grove of trees a perfume shed
And waved their tops, though he was gone;
The passers-by to me would say:
“Was there a house within that slope?”
I only answered: “Father's day
They habitated with his hope.”

He saw the home we did not see,
He felt the shade above his age
To bless his wife and family
When he had quit this mortal stage.
I feel his spirit shadows there,
It was his joy, it is his tomb,
And in that grove I say my prayer
That somewhere father's found a home.

His son has planted twigs of trees
And saplings quick with bud and root,
That some day may detain the breeze
And blossom flowers, if not fruit—
Fancies and verses—may they grow!
Homes after me to cool and please!
Although my lawn the farmers mow,
I felt the shade, I saw the trees.