HOME

Home, to the hills and the rough, running water; Home, to the plain folk and cold winds again. Oh, I am only a gray farm’s still daughter, Spite of my wandering passion and pain! Home, from the city that snares and enthralls me; Home, from the bold light and bold weary crowd. Oh, it’s the blown snow and bare field that calls me; White star and shy dawn and wild lonely cloud! Home, to the gray house the pine-trees guard, sighing; Home, to the low door that laughs to my touch. How should I know till my wings failed me, flying, Home-nest,—my heart’s nest,—I loved you so much?