|When we go home, though the night be black
And a bitter wind abreast,
No matter how weary and long the way
We know that the end is rest.
There are lights ahead through the cold night rain
And a welcome waiting when
Our feet turn into the old, old paths
And we go home again.
There's never a sky that shelters us
Like the one that glows above
The broad gray roof that is covering those
Of the blood and the name we love.
There's never a pleasant sun-lit road
In all of the ways we roam
Like the little, narrow, familiar street
That runs by the door of home.
It's the prayer of the wandering, storm-tossed soul,
It's the cry of a heart's distress
That is wrung from sorrow, or shame or grief
In the hour of their bitterness.
It's the old refrain on the whitened llps
Of the wayfaring sons of men:
"When we go home, when we go home.
When we go home again!"
The Call of Kansas and Other Poems
Esther M. (Clark) Hill
(Cedar Rapids: Torch Press. __)