The Road Home

Over the hills as the pewee flies, Under the blue of the southern skies; Over the hills where the red-bird wings, Like a scarlet blossom, or sits and sings;

Under the shadow of rock and tree, Where the warm wind drones with the honeybee; And the tall wild-carrots around you sway Their lace-like flowers of cloudy gray:

By the black-cohosh and its pearl-white plume A-nod in the woodland’s odorous gloom; By the old rail-fence, in the elder’s shade, That the myriad hosts of the weeds invade:

Where the butterfly-weed, like a coal of fire, Blurs orange-red through brush and brier; Where the pennyroyal and mint smell sweet, And blackberries tangle the humming heat, The old road leads; then crosses the creek, Where the minnow dartles, a silvery streak; Where the cows wade deep through the blue-eyed grass, And the flickering dragon-flies gleaming pass.

That road is easy, however long, Which wends with beauty as toil with song; And the road we follow shall lead us straight Past creek and wood to a farm-house gate.

Past hill and hollow, whence scents are blown Of dew-wet clover that scythes have mown; To a house that stands with porches wide And gray low roof on the green hill-side.

Colonial, stately; ’mid shade and shine Of the locust tree and the southern pine; With its orchard acres and meadowlands Stretched out before it like welcoming hands.

And gardens, where, in the myrrh-sweet June, Magnolias blossom with many a moon Of fragrance; and, in the feldspar light Of August, roses bloom red and white.

In a woodbine arbor, a perfumed place, A slim girl sits with listening face; Her bonnet by her, a sunbeam lies On her lovely hair, in her earnest eyes.

Her eyes, as blue as the distant deeps Of the heavens above where the high hawk sleeps; A book beside her, wherein she read Till she saw him coming, she heard his tread.

Come home at last; come back from the war; In his eyes a smile, on his brow a scar: To the South come back--who wakes from her dream To the love and the peace of a new regime.