Something is calling ... calling through the rain,-
I heard it first when I was but a child,
Careless, among rose-brambles running wild.
I heard it next when loss sent swordlike pain
That cut my moorings ... thrust me from the shore:
My laughter checked, quenched too my life's desire,-
Spring withered then. And now an autumn fire
Is drifting fragrant woodsmoke through my door.

Evoking only placid memories ...
Suggests that peace dwells in an ordered place,
And weaves a screening veil before my face.
But always, always, keen expectancies
Break through the gentle patting of fall rain,-
Not lullabies, I ask,- but life again!