 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
152
HOME.
Though the heart hath been sunken in folly and guilt—
Though its hopes and its joys on the earth have been spilt—
Though its course hath become like the cataract's foam—
Still, still it is holy, when thinking on Home.
Though its tears have been shed like the rains of the spring—
Though it may have grown loath to existence to cling—
Oh, still a sweet thought like a shadow will come,
When the eye of the mind turns again to its Home.
Though the fire of the heart may have withered its core
Unto ashes and dust—though the head have turned hoar
Ere its time, as the surfs o'er the breakers that foam—
Still, a tear will arise when we think upon Home.
Though its hopes and its joys on the earth have been spilt—
Though its course hath become like the cataract's foam—
Still, still it is holy, when thinking on Home.
Though its tears have been shed like the rains of the spring—
Though it may have grown loath to existence to cling—
Oh, still a sweet thought like a shadow will come,
When the eye of the mind turns again to its Home.
Though the fire of the heart may have withered its core
Unto ashes and dust—though the head have turned hoar
Ere its time, as the surfs o'er the breakers that foam—
Still, a tear will arise when we think upon Home.
| Prose sketches and poems | |