The Conservative (Lovecraft)/July 1918/The Prodigal
The Prodigal
By Ernest Lionel McKeag, R. N. R.
On an African desert, remote and far-reaching,
In a region of heat where the sun ever burns,
The half-buried bones of a trav’ler lie bleaching—
He has gone to that bourn whence no mortal returns.
Midst a fair English garden where robins are mating,
In a cottage with roses abloom by the door,
A weary-eyed mother is waiting, ay, waiting,
For the prodigal son she will gaze on no more.