Home Again.

Far down the lane     A window pane     Gleams 'mid the trees through night and rain.     The weeds are dense     Through which a fence     Of pickets rambles, none sees whence,     Before a porch, all indistinct of line,     O'er-grown and matted with wistaria-vine.     No thing is heard,     No beast or bird,     Only the rain by which are stirred     The draining leaves,     And trickling eaves     Of crib and barn one scarce perceives;     And garden-beds where old-time flow'rs hang wet     The phlox, the candytuft, and mignonette.     The hour is late     At any rate     She has not heard him at the gate:     Upon the roof     The rain was proof     Against his horse's galloping hoof:     And when the old gate with its weight and chain     Creaked, she imagined 't was the wind and rain.     Along he steals     With cautious heels,     And by the lamplit window kneels:     And there she sits,     And rocks and knits     Within the shadowy light that flits     On face and hair, so sweetly sad and gray,     Dreaming of him she thinks is far away.     Upon his cheeks     Is it the streaks     Of rain, as now the old porch creaks     Beneath his stride?     Then, warm and wide,     The door flings and she's at his side     "Mother!" and he, back from the war, her boy,     Kisses her face all streaming wet with joy.