For works with similar titles, see The Return.
THE RETURN"It is our mother's bosom that we seek in all the sorrows of life."
I am weary of wandering, mother,
Now let me sit down at your feet;
Tor the shadows are stretching across the floor,
And the dew-damp air is sweet.
Now far away o'er the harvest field,
The moon comes up like a blood-red shield.
Now let me sit down at your feet;
Tor the shadows are stretching across the floor,
And the dew-damp air is sweet.
Now far away o'er the harvest field,
The moon comes up like a blood-red shield.
I have roamed all the summer day, mother,
Down thro' the old dim wood,
Where not a sunbeam can find its way
To the depth of the solitude.
Where the stream runs dark 'neath the arching trees,
Unstirred by the wayward summer breeze.
Down thro' the old dim wood,
Where not a sunbeam can find its way
To the depth of the solitude.
Where the stream runs dark 'neath the arching trees,
Unstirred by the wayward summer breeze.
But I did not wander alone all day,
For a radiant friend was mine;
And we talked of a thousand wondrous things,
Half earthly and half divine.
Such bliss it was never my lot to prove,
For, mother, you've guessed? that I talked with Love.
For a radiant friend was mine;
And we talked of a thousand wondrous things,
Half earthly and half divine.
Such bliss it was never my lot to prove,
For, mother, you've guessed? that I talked with Love.
But, oh, my mother—and here is the grief,
When even came sad and mild,
He spread his pinions for fairer lands;
Oh, mother, enfold your child,
And soothe me to rest with some old-time song,
For it seems to me I've been wandering long.
When even came sad and mild,
He spread his pinions for fairer lands;
Oh, mother, enfold your child,
And soothe me to rest with some old-time song,
For it seems to me I've been wandering long.