"I'LL buy a little farm somewhere," the old man says, "and tinker there, until it's time to go to sleep, down where the bending willows weep. I know a farm I'd like to buy; it's where I lived when three feet high. It's where my father used to strive to keep the family alive. 'Twas there, in bygone, golden days, I hoed the beans and husked the maize, and dreamed of triumphs I'd achieve, when I that dreary farm could leave. To dwell in cities was my aim, to cut a swath and conquer fame, and that old sandy, rocky farm for me was quite devoid of charm. The dreams I dreamed have all come true, I've done the things I meant to do, but I am old and worn and tired, and for a long time I've desired, above all other things, to go back to the scenes I used to know." Thousands of old men talk that way; when they are bent by the years, and gray, feeble of step and weak of arm, they turn their eyes to the old home farm. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GUNS AS KEYS: AND THE GREAT GATE SWINGS by AMY LOWELL HOW TO GET ON IN SOCIETY by JOHN BETJEMAN PROGRESSIVE HEALTH by CARL DENNIS THE MASTER-PLAYER by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE DARKNESS OF EGYPT by MARIA ABDY FRIAR JEROME'S BEAUTIFUL BOOK; A.D. 1200 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH MIRTH by EDITH COURTENAY BABBITT |