As these hands take forth mine own possessions at long journey's end,
how richly blessed art these frail nostrils, beholding, yet again,
in apparel newly cleaned, the sweetly heralded song of love which soundly burns,
though by mortal hearing ne'er discerned,
nor with dust-fassioned eyes ne'er seen.
Each note unfained, bespeaks strength unto my longing heart,
and fills me, as the winged wafting scent of rain,
and, in its presence, from my soul,
I watch sad abscences, as sweeping billows roll.
Fond memories of times spent of late with kindred dear,
now mingle themselves with newer spoken sad farewells,
which mercilessly toll their bells in these mine ears,
thus making me e'er mindful of what is present . .
what is now . . .
what is here.
Oh, blessed land of my childhood . . .
That angel fair,
who now, as in times past for me doth care,
hath grasped in part thy buds of spring,
thy mist of summer's dawn,
thy soft noon rain,
thine evening breeze, e'r it be gone,
and hath sent it on this my journey, safe and sound,
that at its close,
in this my libry it be found;
reminding me, as ever gracefully the scent upon me sweetly falls,
my home rests not within four walls.
What walls can hold love's winged spirit?
Though distance would its keeper be,
with ears deaf, and eyes blind,
yet mine own heart shall hear it,
for doubtless it pursueth me.
As but a youth in home's four walls,
I lived and loved contentedly,
now I have, from those four walls flown,
to find my home yet lives in me;
And thus, in faintest scents, it whispers,
thou dearest love contented be,
thine heart shall make thy days but few,
'til journey once more brings thee new,
to home, to harth, to family!