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A stranger lies ill, in a distant city,
With no - - letters from home!
The glances that meet him, in lieu of pity,
Are querring, "Why does he roam?"
"Oh, heed my request," says he, "else 'twere better
I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
Dismiss the physician, and bring a letter--
A flock of kind letters from home."
"Oh, heed my request," says he, "else 'twer better I
I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
Dismiss the physician, and bring a letter--
A flock of kind letters from home."
Like messenger doves, from across the mountains,
Cream tinted and golden and white?
Like the clouds that have sipp'd at the Eastern fountains
For thirsty land to take flight;
So come the dear missives--but ah! the stranger
Receives none to lighten his gloom;
In this time of sickness, this hour of danger,
Not ever one letter from home!
He moans in his slumber "Why did I ever
So far - - westwardly roam;
Oh, must I lie down must I sleep forever
With no loving letters from home?
My bones you may bury where winds are lifting
Pacific's broad billows in foam;
Or there on Lone Mountain, where sands are drifting,
But first, bring a letter from home."
"From the 'Golden' up to the portals pearly,"
He murmurs, "Oh can it be far?
On the sunset domain, in the morn how early
Will glimmer the Orient Star?
What light is the melting my shade like fetters?
What birds are those circling the dome?
Those messenger doves are my long sought letters
My flock of kind letters from home."
"They heed my request," says he, "best of debtors,
Their favors are whitening the dome!
Sweet messenger doves are my long sought letters,
My flock of kind letters from home."
Henry Clay Work
Read poems about / on: home, sunset, city, star, sleep, light, wind
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Henry Clay Work
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