Home

I dream again I 'm in the lane That leads me home through night and rain; Again the fence I see and, dense, The garden, wet and sweet of sense; Then mother's window, with its starry line Of light, o'ergrown with rose and trumpetvine. What was 't I heard? Her voice? A bird? Singing? Or was 't the rain that stirred The dripping leaves and draining eaves Of shed and barn, one scarce perceives Past garden-beds where oldtime flowers hang wet Pale phlox and candytuft and mignonette. The hour is late. I can not wait. Quick. Let me hurry to the gate! Upon the roof the rain is proof Against my horse's galloping hoof; And if the old gate, with its weight and chain, Should creak, she 'll think it just the wind and rain. Along I 'll steal, with cautious heel, And at the lamplit window kneel: And there she 'll sit and rock and knit, While on her face the light will flit, As I have seen her, many a night and day, Dreaming of home that is so far away. Upon the pane, dim, blurred with rain, I 'll knock and call out, 'Home again!' And at a stride fling warm and wide The door and catch her to my side Mother! as once I clasped her when a boy, Sobbing my heart out on her breast for joy!