Immortal.

Memories of the old home
To my sister flora.

In fancy, I walk the Paris Hills,
Best known of dear old Maine;

I listen to her flowing rills,
Her Hemlock's mystic strain,

And oft a sound more tender yet;
A spell around me weaves;

'tis the softened pitter-patter pet
of fluttering Birchen Leaves.


I see the play-house on the knoll,

the ledge with moss grown o'er
the birches standing white and whole

as in the days of yore.
I feel again the buoyant thrill

that thro' my being rushed
as I leaped barefoot the tumbling hill

and the cool, soft mosses crushed.



I see the orchards brimming o'er

with fruitage full and fair;
the sops-o-wines I taste once more,

the favorites rich and rare;
the luscious, red-striped marguerites,

the first to drop of all,
and later,rough-cheeked punkkin sweets,

the glory of the fall.


I see the swale, where grow sweet flag,

the rock beneath the tree;
I see the path where childeren lag

e'en yet, like you and me.
And over all the blue sky bends

so summer-bright and calm,
But the child-face on my sister lends

each scene, it's chiefest charm.


O, I hope that when our lives are o'er,

on earth, and when we arise,
we'll find a house like that or yore

Immortal in the skies.
A home with orchards, gardens fine,

sweet birds and laden bees,
and hear upon the heavenly air,

the songs of birchen trees.


-Alice Elizabeth Maxim