The Old Farm / O Henry

Just now when the whitening blossoms flare

On the apple trees and the growing grass

Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air;

With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass

Of the old farm I am dreaming,

And softly smiling, seeming

To see the bright sun beaming

Upon the old home farm.

And when I think how we milked the cows,

And hauled the hay from the meadows low;

And walked the furrows behind the plows,

And chopped the cotton to make it grow

I'd much rather be here dreaming

And smiling, only seeming

To see the hot sun gleaming

Upon the old home farm.