Poems (Eaton)/Glen-Echo Home

by Marcia Jane Eaton

GLEN-ECHO HOME.

I'M thinking of a cottage
 In a green and quiet dell,
Its stone brown walls and lowly roof
 Encircled by a spell;
Of the porch wherein we sat to watch
 The evening's gathering gloom,
Of the woodbine o'er the cottage door,
 Of our Glen-Echo Home.

I'm listening to the murmur
 Of the lovely little stream,
That dances smilingly to meet
 The sun's caressing beam—
The stream upon whose grassy banks
 We loved so well to roam,
Discerning nature's freshest charms
 In our Glen-Echo Home.

I'm longing for the wild birds,
 That earliest came in spring,
And on the pure sweet air trilled forth
 Their richest offering—
Ah, nought of music can compare,
 In hall or lofty dome,
With the sweet wild birds' singing there,
 In our Glen-Echo Home.

I'm picturing the home-charm
 Of garden, field and tree,
Which, though a stranger heeds it not,
 Makes paradise to me;
The sun elsewhere shines not so bright,
 No flowers so sweetly bloom,
As those which toiling hands invite,
 Round our Glen-Echo Home.

I'm dreaming of the future,
 When all our wand'rings o'er,
We'll turn with gladsome steps, to greet
 Our cottage home once more—
Allured by memory's softest voice,
 With loving hearts we'll come,
And gather 'neath the sheltering roof
 Of our Glen-Echo Home.