Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Home ("I heard a sound…")

Home.
I knew my father's chimney top,
Though nearer to my heart than eye,
And watched the blue smoke curling up,
Between me and the winter sky.

Wayworn I traced the homeward track,
My wayward youth had left with joy;
Unchanged in soul I wandered back—
A man in years—in heart a boy.

I thought upon its cheerful hearth,
And cheerful hearts' untainted glee,
And felt, of all I'd seen on earth,
This was the dearest spot to me.