Poems (Sharpless)/The Return

by Frances M. Sharpless

For works with similar titles, see The Return.

THE RETURN "It is our mother's bosom that we seek in all the sorrows of life."

I am weary of wandering, mother,
 Now let me sit down at your feet;
Tor the shadows are stretching across the floor,
 And the dew-damp air is sweet.
Now far away o'er the harvest field,
The moon comes up like a blood-red shield.

I have roamed all the summer day, mother,
 Down thro' the old dim wood,
Where not a sunbeam can find its way
 To the depth of the solitude.
Where the stream runs dark 'neath the arching trees,
Unstirred by the wayward summer breeze.

But I did not wander alone all day,
 For a radiant friend was mine;
And we talked of a thousand wondrous things,
 Half earthly and half divine.
Such bliss it was never my lot to prove,
For, mother, you've guessed? that I talked with Love.

But, oh, my mother—and here is the grief,
 When even came sad and mild,
He spread his pinions for fairer lands;
 Oh, mother, enfold your child,
And soothe me to rest with some old-time song,
For it seems to me I've been wandering long.