HOME, to the hills and the rough, running water; Home, to the plain folk and cold winds again. Oh, I am only a gray farm's still daughter, Spite of my wandering passion and pain! Home, from the city that snares and enthralls me; Home, from the bold light and bold weary crowd. Oh, it's the blown snow and bare field that calls me; White star and shy dawn and wild lonely cloud! Home, to the gray house the pine-trees guard, sighing; Home, to the low door that laughs to my touch. How should I know till my wings failed me, flying, Home-nest, -- my heart's nest, -- I loved you so much? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NO MASTER by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES WHEN I'M KILLED by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES ROUTE MARCH by CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY LEE TO THE REAR [MAY 12, 1864] by JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON ONCE I PASS'D THROUGH A POPULOUS CITY by WALT WHITMAN |