DREAMING OF HOME by Eugene Field

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Oct 1, 1896

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 22, No. 39.

DREAMING OF HOME.

By Eugene Field

It comes to me often in silence, When the firelight sputters low— When the black, uncertain shadows Seem wraiths of long ago; Always with a throb of heartache, That thrills each pulsive vein, Comes the old, unquiet longing For the peace of home again.

I'm sick of the roar of cities, And of faces cold, and strange; I know where there's warmth and welcome, And my yearning fancies range Back to the dear old homestead, With an aching sense of pain; But there'll be joy in the coming, When I go home again.

When I go home again! There's music That never may die away, And it seems the hands of angels, On a mystic harp at play, Have touched with a yearning sadness On a beautiful broken strain, To which is my fond heart wording— When I go home again.

Outside of my darkening window Is the great world's crash and din, And slowly the autumn shadows Come drifting, drifting in. Sobbing, the night wind murmurs To the splash of the autumn rain; But I dream of the glorious greeting When I go home again. —Eugene Field.