 | Poems |  |
53
Home
Home is not home when thou art gone!
My heart in blindness seems to grope;
Where love's accustomed light has shone,
'Tis dark as disappointed hope,
When thou art gone.
My heart in blindness seems to grope;
Where love's accustomed light has shone,
'Tis dark as disappointed hope,
When thou art gone.
The oft appeal, the quick reply,—
Still more, may-be, the silent sense
Of sympathy, when thou art by,—
These, these are Home! And they are hence,
When thou art gone.
Still more, may-be, the silent sense
Of sympathy, when thou art by,—
These, these are Home! And they are hence,
When thou art gone.
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