Poems (Chitwood)/The Visit Home
THE VISIT HOME.
I've been in our old home to-day, And seen the sunlight creepThrough the half open lattice, where The blue-birds used to sleep.Their pretty nests had fallen down, And not a chirp was heard,To bring from memory's fairy land A love-enwreathed word.
How silent was our little room The shadows on the floorOf gently stirring locust leaves, Fell trembling near the door;And one sweet-lipped, coquettish breeze Came singing from the west—It brought a tiny myrtle bud, And laid it on my breast.
The river wound its shining arms Around the clovered hill,And, now and then, I heard the rush Of water from the mill;And, ruddy in the sunset glow, I saw the old church spirePictured against the distant sky In characters of fire.
One long, long look, and then my head Fell heavy on my hands;For, like a child, I'd wandered back To life's bright morning lands,Forgetting that the glorious isle Was wrapped by mists of years,—Forgetting what had intervened, Of gloomy doubts and fears.
I heard the twitter, low and soft, Of birds beneath the eaves,And sweet Æolus singing out A vesper to the leaves;And, oh! my sad heart panted for The fire upon the hearth,And those dear forms that made for me An Eden of the earth.
But where were they? I looked afar, And slabs of marble whiteStood motionless beneath the trees, And ghostly in the light. I know they sleep most sweetly there, From care and sorrow free;Oh, love me, love me, sister dear, There is none left but thee.
I've been in our old home to-day, And all alone have wept,As those can only weep whose hearts Life's early dreams have kept.I never can go there again, It is no place for me;With crushed heart I must turn away, There is none left but thee.