Poems (Rossetti, 1901)/A Prodigal Son
A PRODIGAL SON.
DOES that lamp still burn in my Father's house, Which he kindled the night I went away?I turned once beneath the cedar boughs, And marked it gleam with a golden ray; Did he think to light me home some day?
Hungry here with the crunching swine, Hungry harvest have I to reapIn a dream I count my Father's kine, I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep, I watch his lambs that browse and leap.
There is plenty of bread at home, His servants have bread enough and to spare;The purple wine-fat froths with foam, Oil and spices make sweet the air, While I perish hungry and bare.
Rich and blessed those servants, rather Than I who see not my Father's face!I will arise and go to my Father:— "Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace, Grant me, Father, a servant's place."