Alice Meynell

At Night

                       To W. M.

Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
        Hither the soft wings sweep;
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
        The dovecote doors of sleep.

Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light
        Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?
        Your words to me, your words!