Upon Searching for the Old Home Place

Beyond the maple trees,

And beyond the meadow gold,

There awaits for me a holy place,

Where I'll meet my autumn old.


It's just across the farmer's stream,

There water flows clear and cold,

A place where all my yearning goes,

Those fields of barley old.


Not far past the distant hills,

Quite near the shepherd's fold,

A valley there is tucked away,

Bathed in daylight turning old.


There in the smoke of aging fires,

In the mist of ventures bold,

In my deep September, I will find

                My youth becoming old,

                yes,  my youth becoming old.


The End

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