The Old Road to Paradise/Homes

by Margaret Widdemer

HOMES

The lamplight's shaded rose On couch and chair and wall, The drowsy book let fall, The children's heads, bent close In some deep argument, The kitten, sleepy-curled, Sure of our good intent, The hearth-fire's crackling glow:His step that crisps the snow, His laughing kiss, wind-cold. . . .

Only the very old Gifts that the night-star brings, Dear homely evening-things, Dear things of all the world, And yet my throat locks tight . . .

Somewhere far off I knowAre ashes on red snowThat were a home last night.