Page:Love Poems and Others.djvu/25
This page has been validated.
END OF ANOTHER HOME-HOLIDAY
I
When shall I see the half moon sink again
Behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden?
When will the scent of the dim, white phlox
Creep up the wall to me, and in at my open window?
When shall I see the half moon sink again
Behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden?
When will the scent of the dim, white phlox
Creep up the wall to me, and in at my open window?
Why is it, the long slow stroke of the midnight bell,
(Will it never finish the twelve?)
Falls again and again on my heart with a heavy reproach?
(Will it never finish the twelve?)
Falls again and again on my heart with a heavy reproach?
The moon-mist is over the village, out of the mist speaks the bell,
And all the little roofs of the village bow low, pitiful, beseeching, resigned:
Oh, little home, what is it I have not done well?
And all the little roofs of the village bow low, pitiful, beseeching, resigned:
Oh, little home, what is it I have not done well?
Ah home, suddenly I love you,
As I hear the sharp clean trot of a pony down the road,
Succeeding sharp little sounds dropping into the silence,
Clear upon the long-drawn hoarseness of a train across the valley.
As I hear the sharp clean trot of a pony down the road,
Succeeding sharp little sounds dropping into the silence,
Clear upon the long-drawn hoarseness of a train across the valley.
The light has gone out from under my mother’s door.
That she should love me so,
She, so lonely, greying now,
And I leaving her,
Bent on my pursuits!
That she should love me so,
She, so lonely, greying now,
And I leaving her,
Bent on my pursuits!
Love is the great Asker,
The sun and the rain do not ask the secret
The sun and the rain do not ask the secret
xiii.