Poems (Bushnell)/Homeward

by Frances Louisa Bushnell

XXVII
HOMEWARD

A gallop through the mountain way,
 With click, click, click, against the flint,—
Hard following on the flying day,
 That backward flings a fiery tint.

The twilight pines stand dense and grim,
 And sigh and sigh, "The day is dead;"
The virgin birches, tall and slim,
 Wave shadowy arms across the red.

In brooding peace the uplands lie,
 Stretched dimly in their evening rest;
As through their lifted calm I fly,
 On, onward, to the happy West.

Oh West, heart-red, burn close before!
 Pale, dreamy East, float far behind!
No pause, good steed,—a few miles more,
 In yonder glow our rest we find.

Urgent, we reach the downward hill,
 The village darkens far below,—
Has aught befallen her of ill?
 My eager heart leaps down to know.

A swift descent along the ridge,
 Through shady glooms and breaks of light;
A cheery clatter on the bridge,
 Then up the street where falls the night.

Across the dark a hearth-fire's gleam,
 A graceful shadow on the wall;
'Twas false, thank God, that last night's dream,
 That something evil did befall.

From out the door a ruddier shine
 Meets vanished daylight's golden trace,
And starry eyes turned up to mine,—
 One light in heaven and home and face!