The Blackened Walnut In Its Spicy Hull Rots Where It Fell; And, In The Orchard, Where The Trees Stand Full, The Pear'S Ripe Bell Drops; And The Log-House In The Bramble Lane, From Whose Low Door Stretch Yellowing Acres Of The Corn And Cane, He Sees Once More. The Cat-Bird Sings Upon Its Porch Of Pine; And O'Er Its Gate, All Slender-Podded, Twists The Trumpet-Vine, A Leafy Weight; And In The Woodland, By The Spring, Mayhap, With Eyes Of Joy Again He Bends To Set A Rabbit-Trap, A Brown-Faced Boy. Then, Whistling, Through The Underbrush He Goes, Out Of The Wood, Where, With Young Cheeks, Red As An Autumn Rose, Beneath Her Hood, His Sweetheart Waits, Her School-Books On Her Arm; And Now It Seems Beside His Chair He Sees His Wife'S Fair Form - The Old Man Dreams.