REFUGE

MARY J. ELMENDORF.

Across the lonely moor of the sky,
Wild and bleak and pale,
When the fairy webs of frost are spun
And the autumn wind-harps ring.
The wildfowl sail,
The eager robins fly,
Going home to the south and the sun—
Going home to spring.

Over the world's Cadmean stress,
Cruel, long, and deep,
Born of the dragon-teeth of night
And the dreary, misted sod,
My longings sweep,
My thoughts, impetuous, press,
Going home to comfort and light—
Going home to God.