Home.

Among the fields the camomile Seems blown steam in the lightning's glare. Unusual odors drench the air. Night speaks above; the angry smile Of storm within her stare. The way for me to-night?—To-night, Is through the wood whose branches fill The road with dripping rain-drops. Till, Between the boughs, a star-like light— Our home upon the hill. The path for me to take?—It goes Around a trailer-tangled rock, 'Mid puckered pink and hollyhock, Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose, And door whereat I knock. Bright on the old-time flower-place The lamp streams through the foggy pane. The door is opened to the rain; And in the door—her happy face, And eager hands again.