Poem by Madison Julius Cawein

Home

I dream again I'm in the lane
That leads me home through night and rain;
Again the fence I see and, dense,
The garden, wet and sweet of sense;
Then mother's window, with its starry line
Of light, o'ergrown with rose and trumpetvine.

What was 't I heard? Her voice? A bird?
Singing? Or was 't the rain that stirred
The dripping leaves and draining eaves
Of shed and barn, one scarce perceives
Past garden-beds where oldtime flowers hang wet
Pale phlox and candytuft and mignonette.

The hour is late. I can not wait.
Quick. Let me hurry to the gate!
Upon the roof the rain is proof
Against my horse's galloping hoof;
And if the old gate, with its weight and chain,
Should creak, she 'll think it just the wind and rain.

Along I 'll steal, with cautious heel,
And at the lamplit window kneel:
And there she 'll sit and rock and knit,
While on her face the light will flit,
As I have seen her, many a night and day,
Dreaming of home that is so far away.

Upon the pane, dim, blurred with rain,
I 'll knock and call out, "Home again!"
And at a stride fling warm and wide
The door and catch her to my side
Mother! as once I clasped her when a boy,
Sobbing my heart out on her breast for joy!

1. Rembrandts
2. Elfin
3. The Rain
4. Love's Calendar
5. In Middle Spring

Anne Brontë Home ("How brightly glistening in the sun")

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