The snows have bleached it this many a year;
The sun has painted it grey;
The vines hold it close in their clinging arms;
The shadows creep there to stay;
And the wind goes calling through empty rooms
For those who have gone away.
But the roses against the window-pane
Are the roses I used to know;
And the rain on the roof still sings the song
It sang in the long ago,
When I lay me down to sleep in a bed
Little and white and low.
It is long since I bid it all good-bye,
With young light-hearted disdain;
I remember who stood at the door that day;
Her tears fell fast as the rain;
And I whistled a tune and waved my hand,
But never went back again.
Toll I have paid at the gates of the world,
The sand I know and the sea;
I have taken the wide and open road,
With steps unhindered and free;
Yet, like a bell ringing down in my heart,
My home is calling to me.
IN SOLITUDE
He is not desolate whose ship is sailing
Over the mystery of an unknown sea,
For some great love with faithfulness unfailing
Will light the stars to bear him company.
Out in the silence of the mountain passes,
The heart makes peace and liberty its own--
The wind that blows across the scented grasses
Bringing the balm of sleep--comes not alone.
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