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.