Home at Last

Down the paths of a dream long deadA man's sad heart goes wandering,So sunk in its piteous ponderingThat the very light of his day is fled.

His eyes are shuttered to heaven's blue,His ears are deaf to the lark's rapt singing;Though hosts of angels are over him winging,No hint of their music filters through.

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Signs of the Times
March 16, 1940
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