Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

He journeys on, slow moving o'er the moor.
The treacherous dark has razed his homeward path,
And like a spirit from the heavens sent,
Dances before him his old kitchen hearth,
His children round, and antique serving maid.
The pale stars glimmer through a flickering mist,
While chill the night-breeze creeps about his heart.
His unfamiliar step crushes the herb
That withered long ago, untouched before.
He stumbles o'er rude stones, and climbs the hill,
To see the waning moon with pity look
On marshes spread beneath, and endless glades
Where never fell his eye until this hour.