Over The Hills, As The Pewee Flies, Under The Blue Of The Southern Skies; Over The Hills, Where The Red-Bird Wings Like A Scarlet Blossom, Or Sits And Sings: Under The Shadow Of Rock And Tree, Where The Warm Wind Drones With The Honey-Bee; And The Tall Wild-Carrots Around You Sway Their Lace-Like Flowers Of Cloudy Gray: By The Black-Cohosh With Its Pearly Plume A-Nod In The Woodland'S Odorous Gloom; By The Old Rail-Fence, In The Elder'S Shade, That The Myriad Hosts Of The Weeds Invade: Where The Butterfly-Weed, Like A Coal Of Fire, Blurs Orange-Red Through Bush And Brier; Where The Pennyroyal And Mint Smell Sweet, And Blackberries Tangle The Summer Heat, The Old Road Leads; Then Crosses The Creek, Where The Minnow Dartles, A Silvery Streak; Where The Cows Wade Deep Through The Blue-Eyed Grass, And The Flickering Dragonflies Gleaming Pass. That Road Is Easy, However Long, Which Wends With Beauty As Toil With Song; And The Road We Follow Shall Lead Us Straight Past Creek And Wood To A Farmhouse Gate. Past Hill And Hollow, Whence Scents Are Blown Of Dew-Wet Clover That Scythes Have Mown; To A House That Stands With Porches Wide And Gray Low Roof On The Green Hill-Side. Colonial, Stately; 'Mid Shade And Shine Of The Locust-Tree And The Southern Pine; With Its Orchard Acres And Meadowlands Stretched Out Before It Like Welcoming Hands. And Gardens, Where, In The Myrrh-Sweet June, Magnolias Blossom With Many A Moon Of Fragrance; And, In The Feldspar Light Of August, Roses Bloom Red And White. In A Woodbine Arbor, A Perfumed Place, A Slim Girl Sits With A Happy Face; Her Bonnet By Her, A Sunbeam Lies On Her Lovely Hair, In Her Earnest Eyes. Her Eyes, As Blue As The Distant Deeps Of The Heavens Above Where The High Hawk Sleeps; A Book Beside Her, Wherein She Read Till She Saw Him Coming, She Heard His Tread. Come Home At Last; Come Back From The War; In His Eyes A Smile, On His Brow A Scar: To The South Come Back Who Wakes From Her Dream To The Love And Peace Of A New Regime.