Macabee Hill (Italian sonnet)
I passed by a brook and felt its chill,
walked through a field whose hay was now shorn,
bounded by maples and harvest corn
I left my home on Macabee Hill.
The song of a crow was beastly shrill
the cushy path was now sticks and thorn
I thought of our joy and felt forlorn
I missed my home on Macabee Hill.
Ahead through the mist was Franklin Mill
where my allegiance was warmly sworn
and you followed suit and it did thrill
an aching heart that was soon reborn.
I love my home on Macabee Hill
whose pageantry your face does adorn.