My home! The spirit of its love is breathing
In every wind that blows across my track;
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing,
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back.
There am I loved—there pray’d for—there my mother
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye;
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother—
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly.
There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending,
All the home-voices meet at day’s decline;