Going Home Poem by Robert James Campbell Stead

The village lights grew dim behind, the snow lay vast and white,
And silent as an icy shroud spread out upon the night;
A wan moon struggled with the clouds, and through the misty haze
The trails that branched to left and right were tangled as a maze;
The settler's horses plodded in the soft, uncertain snow;
And, stealing cautiously behind, a Thing moved to and fro.

The trail was little travelled, and the pale, sad, sickly light
Was hindrance, rather than a help, to read the road aright;
A dozen miles lay stretched between the settler and his shack:
He thought of many things that night — not once of turning back.
Above the crunching of the snow he heard the rising wind,
But never looked — and never saw — the Thing that stole behind.

The trail was lost; the horses took their way across the plain;
The settler strove to hold the course, but strove, alas, in vain ;
The fickle wind seemed scarce to stay a moment at a place —
Now howling in a rear attack, now snapping at his face;
And, nearing, leering, peering, in the ghastly, ghostly light,
The Thing came softly after as it followed in the night.

A light! a light! a welcome light gleamed friendly from afar:
Oh, can it be—it cannot be—'tis surely not a star?
Nay, nay, it is more warm and near, a happy farmer's home
That beckons to the wanderer, ' You need no longer roam,'
With eager hope they hastened on, and plied across the plain;
As often as the horses fell they rose to plunge again.

The hours moved on, the miles moved on, they followed as a dream
The waning light, the dying light, of that deceitful gleam,
And when at last it seemed the place must almost be in sight,
The light went out! Oh, perfidy! Oh, murderous, mocking light!
'Twas well the ears grew deaf before the howling of the wind,
Nor heard the ghoulish chuckle of the gloating Thing behind.

The snow lay deep; the horses floundered with the heavy sleigh,
Till, plunging in a sudden drift, they tore the tongue away;
The sleepy driver knew it not, as through his nerve-less hands
His hold on life was slipping with the frozen leather bands.
The night was calm and beautiful, the frost had ceased to smart. . . .
The Thing had leapt upon him and was tearing at his heart I

The room was warm and cosy, and the light was soft and low,
Her presence seemed to radiate a tender, girlish glow,
And when she placed her hand in his, the soft, caressing palm
Was cure for every trouble, and for every pain a balm:
And she whispered, ' Sweet, my sweetheart, I'll be faithful, I'll be true ;
In the springtime, in the springtime, I will cross the sea to you.' . . .

A little bed was fashioned in the fitful fire-light glow;
A little boy was murmuring a prayer of long ago
And mother-hands upon his head, that fondled in his hair,
And sense of quiet comfort and respite from every care;
And a pillow white and downy, and a bed so soft and deep,
And tired lips were lisping, ' Now I lay me down to sleep.' . . .

Again the scene was changed : A flood of mellow, amber light,
That filled the soul with ecstasy of infinite delight;
While crystal-cadenced music tinkled through the yellow glow,
The lullabies of childhood and the songs of long ago;
The sea of God on every hand in silent silver lay:
An atom fell: its circles spread through all eternity.

. . . . . . . . .
The Thing was gone; its work was done; a lump of lifeless clay
Sat crouching, crouching, crouching in the dawning of the day,
The frozen eyeballs stared upon a wilderness of snow,
And peered into the future, to the Place no man may know.
A she-wolf prowled about the spot and sniffed below the sleigh,
And howled a melancholy howl, and slunk in fear away.