Saints in Sussex

by Sheila Kaye-Smith

While far down the sky the yellow moon dips to her dying,

And the big stars hang like lamps in the fading west.

Lord of the journey’s end, if I too should stumble

At last to the long lane’s turning, there may I see

The beckon and gleam of the lamp that is hung in Thy cottage,

Calling me home to my supper, my friends, and sleep.

The Saints sup with Thee, there in the dusk and lamplight—

Mary and Joseph and Peter and all my friends—

With faces propped on their tired and toil-worn fingers,

And kind eyes full of the peace of the journey’s end.