Poems About Home

But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night,Is the silent, unknown stream. That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps Come to the dread abysm:Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism.

Oh, if my mortal feet Have almost gained the brink;If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think;

Father, perfect my trust; Let my spirit feel in death,That her feet are firmly set On the rock of a living faith!

But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp,Over his shoulder he slung his gun And stealthily followed the foot-path damp,

Across the clover and through the wheat With resolute heart and purpose grim,Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;And now, when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain;And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late, He went for the cows when the work was done;But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming one by one,--

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind;Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,--But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue;And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Looked out a face that the father knew.

For gloomy prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again;And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb;And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home.

And yet the threshold of my doore Is worn by the poore,Who hither come and freely get Good words or meat.Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small;A little butterie, and therein A little byn,Which keeps my little loafe of bread Unchipt, unflead.Some sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire,Close by whose loving coals I sit, And glow like it.Lord, I confesse too, when I dine, The pulse is thine,And all those other bits that bee There placed by thee;The worts, the purslain, and the messe Of water-cresse,Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; And my contentMakes those and my beloved beet More sweet.'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltlesse mirth,And giv'st me wassaile bowles to drink, Spiced to the brink.Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That soiles my land,And gives me for my bushel sowne, Twice ten for one.Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day,Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each yeare;The while the conduits of my kine Run creame for wine.All these and better thou dost send Me to this end,That I should render, for my part, A thankfulle heart,Which, fired with incense, I resigne As wholly thine;But the acceptance, that must be, MY CHRIST, by thee.

By the mount or under the hill,Or down by the little river:Stay as long as you please,Give me only a bud from the trees,Or a blade of grass in morning dew,Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,I could look on it forever.

Wheel, wheel through the sunshine,Wheel, wheel through the shadow;There must be odors round the pine,There must be balm of breathing kine,Somewhere down in the meadow.Must I choose? Then anchor me thereBeyond the beckoning poplars, whereThe larch is snooding her flowery hairWith wreaths of morning shadow.

Among the thickest hazels of the brakePerchance some nightingale doth shakeHis feathers, and the air is full of song;In those old days when I was young and strong,He used to sing on yonder garden tree,Beside the nursery.Ah, I remember how I loved to wake,And find him singing on the self-same bough(I know it even now)Where, since the flit of bat,In ceaseless voice he sat,Trying the spring night over, like a tune,Beneath the vernal moon;And while I listed long,Day rose, and still he sang,And all his stanchless song,As something falling unaware,Fell out of the tall trees he sang among,Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang,--Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair.

My soul lies out like a basking hound,--A hound that dreams and dozes;Along my life my length I lay,I fill to-morrow and yesterday,I am warm with the suns that have long since set,I am warm with the summers that are not yet,And like one who dreams and dozesSoftly afloat on a sunny sea,Two worlds are whispering over me,And there blows a wind of rosesFrom the backward shore to the shore before,From the shore before to the backward shore,And like two clouds that meet and pourEach through each, till core in coreA single self reposes,The nevermore with the evermoreAbove me mingles and closes;As my soul lies out like the basking hound,And wherever it lies seems happy ground,And when, awakened by some sweet sound,A dreamy eye uncloses,I see a blooming world around,And I lie amid primroses,--Yearsof sweet primroses,Springs of fresh primroses,Springs to be, and springs for meOf distant dim primroses.

O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,To feel I may dream and to know you deemMy work is done forever,And the palpitating fever,That gains and loses, loses and gains,And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand pains,Cooled at once by that blood-letUpon the parapet;And all the tedious tasked toil of the difficult long endeavorSolved and quit by no more fineThan these limbs of mine,Spanned and measured once for allBy that right-hand I lost,Bought up at so light a costAs one bloody fallOn the soldier's bed,And three days on the ruined wallAmong the thirstless dead.

O, to think my name is crostFrom duty's muster-roll;That I may slumber though the clarion call,And live the joy of an embodied soulFree as a liberated ghost.O, to feel a life of deedWas emptied out to feedThat fire of pain that burned so brief awhile,--That fire from which I come, as the dead comeForth from the irreparable tomb,Or as a martyr on his funeral pileHeaps up the burdens other men do bearThrough years of segregated care,And takes the total loadUpon his shoulders broad,And steps from earth to God.

O, to think, through good or ill,Whatever I am you'll love me still;O, to think, though dull I be,You that are so grand and free,You that are so bright and gay,Will pause to hear me when I will,As though my head were gray;A single self reposes,The nevermore with the evermoreAbove me mingles and closes;As my soul lies out like the basking hound,And wherever it lies seems happy ground,And when, awakened by some sweet sound,A dreamy eye uncloses,I see a blooming world around,And I lie amid primroses,--Years of sweet primroses,Springs of fresh primroses.Springs to be, and springs for meOf distant dim primroses.

O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,To feel I may dream and to know you deemMy work is done forever,And the palpitating fever,That gains and loses, loses and gains,And she,Perhaps, O even sheMay look as she looked when I knew herIn those old days of childish sooth,Ere my boyhood dared to woo her.I will not seek nor sue her,For I'm neither fonder nor truerThan when she slighted my lovelorn youth,My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth,And I only lived to rue her.But I'll never love another,And, in spite of her lovers and lands,She shall love me yet, my brother!

As a child that holds by his mother,While his mother speaks his praises,Holds with eager hands,And ruddy and silent standsIn the ruddy and silent daisies,And hears her bless her boy,And lifts a wondering joy,So I'll not seek nor sue her,But I'll leave my glory to woo her,And I'll stand like a child beside,And from behind the purple prideI'll lift my eyes unto her,And I shall not be denied.And you will love her, brother dear,And perhaps next year you'll bring me hereAll through the balmy April tide,And she will trip like spring by my side,And be all the birds to my ear.

And here all three we'll sit in the sun,And see the Aprils one by one,Primrosed Aprils on and on,Till the floating prospect closesIn golden glimmers that rise and rise,And perhaps are gleams of Paradise,And perhaps too far for mortal eyes,New springs of fresh primroses,Springs of earth's primroses,Springs to be, and springs for meOf distant dim primroses.

We two are waiting together;And oft, as the shadows come,With tremulous voice he calls me,"It is night! are the children home?"

"Yes, love!" I answer him gently,"They're all home long ago;"--And I sing, in my quivering treble,A song so soft and low,Till the old man drops to slumber,With his head upon his hand,And I tell to myself the numberAt home in the better land.

At home, where never a sorrowShall dim their eyes with tears!Where the smile of God is on themThrough all the summer years!I know,--yet my arms are empty,That fondly folded seven,And the mother-heart within meIs almost starved for heaven.

Sometimes, in the dusk of evening,I only shut my eyes,And the children are all about me,A vision from the skies:The babes whose dimpled fingersLost the way to my breast,And the beautiful ones, the angels,Passed to the world of the blest.

With never a cloud upon them,I see their radiant brows;My boys that I gave to freedom,--The red sword sealed their vows!In a tangled Southern forest,Twin brothers bold and brave,They fell; and the flag they died for,Thank God! floats over their grave.

A breath, and the vision is liftedAway on wings of light,And again we two are together,All alone in the night.They tell me his mind is failing,But I smile at idle fears;He is only back with the children,In the dear and peaceful years.

And still, as the summer sunsetFades away in the west,And the wee ones, tired of playing,Go trooping home to rest,My husband calls from his corner,"Say, love, have the children come?"And I answer, with eyes uplifted,"Yes, dear! they are all at home."

And here is a thought that is sweet and true—The ones you long for are longing for you.You picture the day when the war is done,The duty accomplished, the victory won,And over the billows our ships go leaping,Into our beautiful harbour sweeping,And with laughter and weeping, you go back Home, Home, Home.On the walls of your heart you must hang with careThis beautiful picture, framed in prayer.

Thinking of Home, you are blazing a trailFor that glorious day when our ships shall sail;Where the Goddess of Liberty lights the waterTo guide you back from the fields of slaughter,Fair Freedom’s daughter, who welcomes us Home, Home, Home.So hold your vision, and work and pray,As you dream of the Home that is far away.

From the meads where streams are purling,From the moors where mists are curling,-- Evening brings us home at last, To rest, and warmth, and Thee.

From the pastures where the white lambs to their dams are ever crying,From the byways where the Night lambs ThyLove are crucifying,From the labours of the lowlands,From the glamour of the glowlands,-- Evening brings us home at last, To the fold, and rest, and Thee.

From the Forests of Thy Wonder, where the mighty giants grow,Where we cleave Thy works asunder, and lay the mighty low,From the jungle and the prairie,From the realms of fact and faerie,-- Evening brings us home at last, To rest, and cheer, and Thee.

From our wrestlings with the spectres of the dim and dreary way,From the vast heroic chances of the never-ending fray,From the Mount of High Endeavour,In the hope of Thy For Ever,-- Evening brings us home at last, To trust and peace, and Thee.

From our toilings and our moilings, from the quest of daily bread,From the worship of our idols, and the burying of our dead,Like children, worn and wearyWith the way so long and dreary,-- Evening brings us home at last, To rest, and love, and Thee.

From our journeyings oft and many over strange and stormy seas,From our search the wide world over for the larger liberties,From our labours vast and various,With our harvestings precarious,-- Evening brings us home at last, To safety, rest, and Thee.

From the yet-untrodden No-Lands, where we sought Thy secrets out,From the blizzards of the Nightlands, and the blazing White-Lands' drought,From the undiscovered countryWhere our IS is yet to be,-- Evening brings us home at last, To welcome cheer, and Thee.

From the temples of our living, all empurpled with Thy giving,From the warp of life thick-threaded with the gold of Thine inweaving,From the days so full of splendour,From the visions rare and tender,-- Evening brings us home at last, To quiet rest in Thee.

From the Dim-Lands, from the Grim-Lands, from the Lands of High Emprise,From the Lands of Disillusion to the Truth that never dies;With rejoicing and with singing,Each his rightful sheaves home-bringing,-- Evening brings us all at last, To Harvest-Home with Thee.

From the fields of fiery trying, where our bravest and our best,By their living and their dying their souls' high faith attest,From these dread, red fields of sorrow,From the fight for Thy To-morrow,-- Evening brings each one at last, To GOD'S own Peace in Thee.