Classic Poem

Wild is the way through the woodland, but there are the sweet fields of clover—
The sighing, sad pines and the jessamine vines and the rill that leaps laughingly over
The lilies that rim it—the shadows that dim it; and there, winding winsomely sweet,
Is the path that still leads to the old home through rivery ripples of wheat!

And hark! 'tis the song of the reapers, and I know by its jubilant ringing
There is gold in the gleam of the harvest and love in the hearts that are singing;
And still as of old to the ether its music mellifluous swells,
And the wind that sighs westward is swaying the sweetest of Memory's bells!

Let me pass through the wheat and the clover—O men and rose-maidens who reap!
I, who come from the sound of the cities, like a child to its mother would creep;
For through long years of tears and of toiling, like harbor-bells over the foam
Your voices far winging and ringing were singing me—singing me home!

And now, from the pain and the pleasure—from the sorrow and sighing I flee
Like the birds when the storm-winds are blowing—like the ships seek the haven from sea!
And I fancy the violets know me in gardens of beauty and bliss;
And do not the red roses owe me the peace of the prodigal's kiss?

The sun is still bright at the portal; there the lovelight all radiant shines;
Heart! heart! there's a face we remember in the tangle and bloom of the vines!
Far off the glad reapers are singing—far off in the rivery wheat,
And the arms of a mother are clinging, and the kiss of a mother is sweet!