My Little Path
I tried to find my little path
That led around the brook.
And the log beside the brook left
A quiet, sandy nook.
Where I watched the shining fishes
Playing in the shining stream,
While I toyed in idle fancy
With some new, fantastic dream.
Now the path is gone.
The brook is dry.
A road runs in its place.
For Nature's art must step aside
When progress sets the pace.
The forest too, has disappeared.
Gone are the ancient trees.
There's nothing left of my regret
Nothing but the memories.
I sometimes wonder if at last
When the sun is hanging low,
And the evening shadows lengthen
In the golden afterglow.
Will I find my pathway waiting,
Waiting for me to come;
To guide my weary footsteps
To the Gate that leads to HOME.
Ella E. Preston
November, 1929
In Lynn Haven, Florida