Poems (Odom)/My Galveston Home
MY GALVESTON HOME.
Just a tiny little cottage With its nest of clinging vines,Where the shadows linger softly And the golden sunlight shines.Where the snowy sweet allyssum Lifts its pretty spotless face,And the purple-tinted pansy Droops its head in tender grace.
The pearly, pure-white jessamine Nestles in its shining leaves,Near the coral-throated cypress That is clinging 'round the eaves.Waxen lily bells are swinging Like white censers in the shade,Where the oleander blossoms Such a blooming shrine have made;
Tossing off their pale pink petals Drifting down in rosy showers, Kissing lightly as they flutter Golden-hearted orange flowers.Through the perfumed aisles of summer Gentle winds are blowing free,And across the island softly Come the whispers of the sea;
Bringing to my heart the throbbing Of its grandly solemn deep,Hushing every human murmur To a quiet, restful sleep,Lifting up my soul to heaven With its never-ceasing prayer,Throwing back the tuneful echoes Of the music swelling there.
There is something strangely thrilling In this song from out the sea,Something weirdly sweet and tender In its wailing notes to me.And I love to sit at evening Just outside my cottage door,When the waves break on the silence, Rushing white upon the shore.
When the violets are filling All the air with rich perfume,And the starry lights are twinkling Softly downward through the gloom.Then the song comes floating to me With its tender, sweet refrain,Flooding all my soul with gladness, Stilling every pulse of pain.
And I bend my head in silence, There beneath the sky's blue dome,Thanking God for all the blessings That he showers on my home;For a thousand simple pleasures That about my path are strown,For the manly heart that shelters, With such loving strength, my own;
For the boy whose steps are verging Almost into manhood now,Who wears his father's likeness In his form and on his brow;For the little one whose laughter Rings out lightly on the air, With dark eyes bright and sparkling, And the sunlight in his hair.
And if my voice will falter, And the tears come to my eyes,When my other little children Whisper to me from the skies;If I sometimes feel the yearning For my little ones again,It is but the mother-longing That has scarce a touch of pain,—
Just a sigh from out the silence Of the unforgotten past,Like the sound of distant music Borne along upon the blast.For I feel that every sorrow My eventful life has known,Will be harvested in gladness For the tears that I have sown.
And I love my humble dwelling, With its zephyrs and its flowers, With the clinging vines about it, And the birds among the bowers.From the loving ones within it I have not a wish to roam,For the Dove of Peace abideth In my heart and in my home.