Call each name—her rosary of pearls—
See her touch each one with gentle finger,
This one's cheek, and that one's sunny curls;
Hear my father's mellow tones commingling
With the sounds a-field, the click of hoes,
The clashing of the corn-blades, the ear-tingling,
Faint-growing shots along the bristling rows.
Oh, the free, fair haven of my childhood!
Oh, the sweet, sure love that never failed!
Oh, the pure, bright fancies dreamed in wildwood
Ere the dews of life's young morn exhaled!
Is this summer? I am cold and weary.
June? I see the pleasant fields no more.
Home? The landscape wintry is and dreary,
And no mother meets me at the door."—
Ah, her eyes are closed upon these shadows;
Hushed for her the birds' song, the bees' drone;
As her white feet touch the heavenly meadows,
Sweet with asphodel, she finds her own.
75
