Home, to the hills and the rough, running water;
Home, to the plain folk and cold winds again.
Oh, I am only a gray farm's still daughter,
Spite of my wandering passion and pain!

Home, from the city that snares and enthralls me;
Home, from the bold light and bold weary crowd.
Oh, it's the blown snow and bare field that calls me;
White star and shy dawn and wild lonely cloud!

Home, to the gray house the pine-trees guard, sighing;
Home, to the low door that laughts to my touch.
How should I know till my wings failed me, flying,
Home-nest, - my heart's nest, - I loved you so much?