Poems (Chitwood)/The Visit Home

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

THE VISIT HOME.

I've been in our old home to-day,
 And seen the sunlight creep
Through 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 floor
Of 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 spire
Pictured 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 white
Stood 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.