Heimweh
BY
JAMES B. KENYON
AH, could it be once more ere life’s wan close! —
That I might climb the long ancestral hill
Where the smooth slope dips to the shattered mill,
And the shrunk brook amid its alders flows;
Feel the soft wind that down the valley blows;
Hear in the dewy hush the whip-poor-will
Thresh the gray silence, and through evening’s chill
Breathe once again the scent of thyme and rose:
That I might climb the long ancestral hill
Where the smooth slope dips to the shattered mill,
And the shrunk brook amid its alders flows;
Feel the soft wind that down the valley blows;
Hear in the dewy hush the whip-poor-will
Thresh the gray silence, and through evening’s chill
Breathe once again the scent of thyme and rose:
Then would great peace flood all my avid breast;
Welcome would be the dusk of twilight skies;
And as a late bird hastens to her nest
Through deepening gloom with little happy cries,
So should I seek the covert of my rest,
And give to death my sleep-consenting eyes.
Welcome would be the dusk of twilight skies;
And as a late bird hastens to her nest
Through deepening gloom with little happy cries,
So should I seek the covert of my rest,
And give to death my sleep-consenting eyes.