I often dream of my old home

I often dream of my old home, The gravel road, the gate of blue. A hut on chicken legs, a "Stop!" Sign, and a mailbox smiling through. A whole row like it stands nearby, But this one's dearest to my heart. The shade of plums, and grapes that I Have watched for years — still green and tart. Here is the bench, as soft as down. There, curled up on my granny's knees, I'll fall asleep to the flies' drone, And wake up in the cool porch breeze. I'll wake up to a drawn-out "moo" — Our Brownie, at her lazy pace, Will pass, into the barn slip through, And meekly turn her udder Gran's way. And off Gran hurries, bucket ringing, And I'm her helper, at her heel. A milky stream on chrome is singing, Gran softly says: "Here, have a feel." Then straining — but the mug's for me! I gulp, drops on the oilcloth fall… I squirm in sleep from sweet and glee. And sunlight, through my eyelids' veil, Wakes me with rays: "Hey, rise and shine! I still recall your childhood grin! And when your day is done, come find The blue gate — run back, come on in."