Into the home-side wood, the long straight aisle of pines,
I turned with a slower step than ever my youth-time knew;
Dusk was gold in the valley, grey in the deep-cut chines,
And below, like a dream afloat, was the quiet sea's fading blue.
Oh, it was joy to see the still night folding down
Over the simple fields I loved, saved by the sacred dead,
Playmates and friends of mine, brothers in camp and town,
The loyal hearts that leapt at the word that England said.
I paused by the cross-roads' sign, for a tinkling sound rang clear,
The small sharp sound of a bell away up the western road;
And presently out of the mist, with clank and clatter of gear,
Rumbled the carrier's cart with its tilt and its motley load:--
The old grey horse that moved in the misty headlight's gleam,
The carrier crouched on his seat, with the bellboy perched astride,
Voices from under the tilt, and laughter--was it a dream,
Or was I awake and alive, standing there by the cross-roads' side?
So I came to the village street where glinting lights shone fair,
The little homely lights that make the glad tears start;
And I knew that one was yearning and waiting to welcome me there,
She that is mother in blood and steadfast comrade in heart.
Oh, but my youth swept back like the tide to a thirsty shore,
Or the little wind at dawn that heralds the wash of rain;
And I ran, I ran, with a song in my heart to the unlatched door,
I returned to the gentle breast that had nursed me--a boy again!
C. KENNETH BURROW.
Dec. 18, 1918.