| When we go home, though the night be black
And a bitter wind abreast, No matter how weary and long the way We know that the end is rest. There are lights ahead through the cold night rain And a welcome waiting when Our feet turn into the old, old paths And we go home again. There's never a sky that shelters us Like the one that glows above The broad gray roof that is covering those Of the blood and the name we love. There's never a pleasant sun-lit road In all of the ways we roam Like the little, narrow, familiar street That runs by the door of home. It's the prayer of the wandering, storm-tossed soul, It's the cry of a heart's distress That is wrung from sorrow, or shame or grief In the hour of their bitterness. It's the old refrain on the whitened llps Of the wayfaring sons of men: "When we go home, when we go home. When we go home again!" |
The Call of Kansas and Other Poems
Esther M. (Clark) Hill
(Cedar Rapids: Torch Press. __)
Page 48
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