Coming Home.
Reading edition
George is coming home, this letter tells me so, From the camp so far away—how glad and cold I grow. I have sat at even’, when the sun was bending o’er The west; I can see him, still, go through the open door. With tears in his eyes, a brave smile upon his face, I’ll be back to you shortly, by His will and His grace; And today I’ll begin to look and to hear If his wandering feet are coming near. My heart beats fast, for I hear a sound, The walk is like his, over the old ground, And a sound like one whistling—Oh, is it he? I falter; no, no; it cannot be. The days glided by slowly, one by one, At last she hastens—dear son, my son! The chair that was vacant, again is filled, And the heart throbs again are stilled, are stilled.