Oh, hush thee! The leaves do shiver sore
That tree whereon they grow,
I see it hewn, and bound, to bear
The weight of human woe!
Mother, I am thy little Son—
The Night comes on apace—
When all God's waiting stars shall smile
On me in thy embrace.
Oh, hush thee! I see black starless night!
Oh, could'st thou slip away
Now, by the hawthorn hedge of Death,—
And get to God by Day!
BUT ONE LEADS SOUTH[80]
[From McClure's Magazine, December, 1909]
So many countries of the earth,
So many lands of such great worth;
So stately, tall, and fair they shine,—
So royal, all,—but one is mine.
So many paths that come and go,
Busy and freighted, to and fro;
So many that I never see
That still bring gifts and friends to me;
So many paths that go and come,
But one leads South,—and that leads home.
Oh, I would rather see the face
Of that dear land a little space
Than have earth's richest, fairest things
My own, or touch the hands of kings.—
I'm homesick for it! When at night
The silent road runs still and white,—
Runs onward, southward, still and fair,
And I know well it's going there,
And I know well at last 'twill come
To that old candle-lighted home,—
Though all the candles of heaven are lit,
I'm homesick for the sight of it!