The Road Home.

Over the hills, as the pewee flies,     Under the blue of the Southern skies;     Over the hills, where the red-bird wings     Like a scarlet blossom, or sits and sings:     Under the shadow of rock and tree,     Where the warm wind drones with the honey-bee;     And the tall wild-carrots around you sway     Their lace-like flowers of cloudy gray:     By the black-cohosh with its pearly plume     A-nod in the woodland's odorous gloom;     By the old rail-fence, in the elder's shade,     That the myriad hosts of the weeds invade:     Where the butterfly-weed, like a coal of fire,     Blurs orange-red through bush and brier;     Where the pennyroyal and mint smell sweet,     And blackberries tangle the summer heat,     The old road leads; then crosses the creek,     Where the minnow dartles, a silvery streak;     Where the cows wade deep through the blue-eyed grass,     And the flickering dragonflies gleaming pass.     That road is easy, however long,     Which wends with beauty as toil with song;     And the road we follow shall lead us straight     Past creek and wood to a farmhouse gate.     Past hill and hollow, whence scents are blown     Of dew-wet clover that scythes have mown;     To a house that stands with porches wide     And gray low roof on the green hill-side.     Colonial, stately; 'mid shade and shine     Of the locust-tree and the Southern pine;     With its orchard acres and meadowlands     Stretched out before it like welcoming hands.     And gardens, where, in the myrrh-sweet June,     Magnolias blossom with many a moon     Of fragrance; and, in the feldspar light     Of August, roses bloom red and white.     In a woodbine arbor, a perfumed place,     A slim girl sits with a happy face;     Her bonnet by her, a sunbeam lies     On her lovely hair, in her earnest eyes.     Her eyes, as blue as the distant deeps     Of the heavens above where the high hawk sleeps;     A book beside her, wherein she read     Till she saw him coming, she heard his tread.     Come home at last; come back from the war;     In his eyes a smile, on his brow a scar:     To the South come back who wakes from her dream     To the love and peace of a new regime.