Poem March 16, 1940 Issue

Home at Last

RUBIE FORSYTH

Down the paths of a dream long dead
A man's sad heart goes wandering,
So sunk in its piteous pondering
That 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.

Since he will not listen and will not look,
Nor turn to the voice of Love's dear pleading,
Nor lift his eyes from his earth-bound book
To the radiant dawn of a clearer reading,

He needs must go to the journey's end,
Where the tender lesson of Love is waiting,
And find in the dark the one true Friend,
Whose love and pity are unabating;

Then home at last is the way-worn rover,
Lifted at last the earth-bowed head—
Yet all the time had the cup brimmed over!
All along was the table spread!

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