O'er
well remembered paths that lead to fields of long ago,Although my feet have lost the way nor may its windings know,My heart turns back, as birds return to summer lands of cheer,Or as a pilgrim, worn and gray, unto his home draws near;My heart turns back, the slow years fade, a boy again am I,Who lacks the wisdom of the world, but also lacks its sighThe fire burns low, the mists steal out that hide the past away:Again I am a little boy upon Thanksgiving Day.
