THE OLD HOME.

MY thoughts are with my far home, my old home, my only home,
     My mother waiting at the door to welcome me within;
Her eyes are like November leaves upon the furrowed, lonely                     loam,
     Her hair is white as night-frost when all the boughs are thin.

I want to see the moon climb the arms of our great pine again,

     I want to feel the dew fall upon the pasture path,
I want to haunt the wood glades and dream that they are mine                     again,
     I want to hear the Bob White across the aftermath.

I want to see the white stream in springtime burst its tomb again,
     I want to feel the young grass about my jaded feet, [Page 38]

I want to set my heart free and give it air and room again
     To move to those forgotten strains to which it used to beat.

O mother, mother, mother, do you know that barefoot boy of                          yours,
     Who went up to the city and was lost in heat and strife,
Has found no bliss that matches with that quiet harvest joy of                          yours?

     That wealth and depth of living beggars all that he called life.

My thoughts are with my old home, my wide-boughed, clover-                    meadowed home,
     Astir beneath the skies of peace when morning birds begin,
Asleep beneath the early stars—my deep-grassed, ivy-shadowed                home,
     With Mother waiting at the door to welcome me within.