Poems (Sill)/Home

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HOME.
THERE lies a little city in the hills;White are its roofs, dim is each dwelling's door,And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills.
There the pure mist, the pity of the sea,Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches o'erAnd touches its still face most tenderly.
Unstirred and calm, amid our shifting years,Lo! where it lies, far from the clash and roar,With quiet distance blurred, as if thro' tears.
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O heart, that prayest so for God to sendSome loving messenger to go beforeAnd lead the way to where thy longings end,
Be sure, be very sure, that soon will comeHis kindest angel, and through that still doorInto the Infinite love will lead thee home.
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