When thou bravest the final voyage,
And thou must steer
Across the mysterious ocean,
Friend, have no fear;
There is only one port for the sailors
When once they are Homeward Bound!
Approaching Night
The lower'd skies are grey; the trees are bare.
A week ago they gleam'd in splendid rows
Of gold and crimson; now in gaunt despair
They stand like ghosts above new-fallen snows.
The world seems even greyer than the skies.
'Twas yesterday the homeward-honking geese
Fled as from death. They know too well what lies
Behind this sinister, foreboding peace!