Poems (Douglas)/My own Dear Home

by Sarah Parker Douglas

My owe dear Home.

Nay, tear me not away
  From my own dear home,
My feet no more shall stray
  From my own dear home;
On the stem where first it shone
Let the blighted flower droop on,
Till its fading glory's gone,
  In its own dear home.

Let gladder hearts find joy
  From their own dear home,
But I see a bluer sky
  O'er my own dear home:
There more gaily flaunts the broom,
There the rose sheds more perfume,
And the lilies brighter bloom,
  Round my own dear home.

And I think the whisp'ring breeze
  Round my own dear home,
Breathes softer through the trees
  Round my own dear home;
All is fair that meets the sight,
E'en the streamlets glide more bright
In their own sweet sunny light,
  Round my own dear home.

Then wherefore seek me now
  From my own dear home?
Death's hand is own my brow
  In my own dear home;
Change of air could never bring
Back the flow of health's sweet spring,
Blighted hearts still closer cling
  To their own dear home.

These feet that feebly stray
  Round my own dear home,
Shall soon be borne away
  To a lone, dark home;
There this weary heart shall rest,
There, above my pulseless breast,
Shall the green, green turf be press'd,
  O'er my lone, dark home.

But when I am removed
  From my own dear home,
From the loving and the loved
  In my own dear home,
Think on me, but not in gloom,
In a cold and silent tomb,
But in sweet immortal bloom
  In a bright, bright home.