The hills remember songs our father sang
When riding range before the break of day.
The winding trails where happy laughter rang
Are silent now, yet all along the way
The same wild roses, radiant and gay,
Hold modest faces to the sun. The sound
Of playing children in the twilight's gray
Is heard no more. Nostalgic meadow-ground
Awaits with hope for eager steps to bound
Across its greening carpet to make sweet
Its longing hours. The loved old home is gowned
In loneliness and yearns for children's feet
To skip across its floors. The years speed fast
Leaving the homestead dreaming of the past.
