Riley Songs of Home Part 1

Riley Songs of Home.

by James Whitcomb Riley.

WE MUST GET HOME

We must get home! How could we stray like this?-- So far from home, we know not where it is,-- Only in some fair, apple-blossomy place Of children's faces--and the mother's face-- We dimly dream it, till the vision clears Even in the eyes of fancy, glad with tears.

We must get home--for we have been away So long, it seems forever and a day!

And O so very homesick we have grown, The laughter of the world is like a moan In our tired hearing, and its song as vain,-- We must get home--we must get home again!

We must get home! With heart and soul we yearn To find the long-lost pathway, and return!...

The child's shout lifted from the questing band Of old folk, faring weary, hand in hand, But faces brightening, as if clouds at last Were showering suns.h.i.+ne on us as we pa.s.sed.

We must get home: It hurts so staying here, Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear, And where to wear wet lashes means, at best, When most our lack, the least our hope of rest-- When most our need of joy, the more our pain-- We must get home--we must get home again!

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We must get home--home to the simple things-- The morning-glories twirling up the strings And bugling color, as they blared in blue- And-white o'er garden-gates we scampered through; The long grape-arbor, with its under-shade Blue as the green and purple overlaid.

We must get home: All is so quiet there: The touch of loving hands on brow and hair-- Dim rooms, wherein the suns.h.i.+ne is made mild-- The lost love of the mother and the child Restored in restful lullabies of rain,-- We must get home--we must get home again!

The rows of sweetcorn and the China beans Beyond the lettuce-beds where, towering, leans The giant sunflower in barbaric pride Guarding the barn-door and the lane outside; The honeysuckles, midst the hollyhocks, That clamber almost to the martin-box.

We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse, Time humors us and tiptoes through the house, And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise, With dreams--not tear-drops--br.i.m.m.i.n.g our clenched eyes,-- Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain-- We must get home--we must get home again!

We must get home! The willow-whistle's call Trills crisp and liquid as the waterfall-- Mocking the trillers in the cherry-trees And making discord of such rhymes as these, That know nor lilt nor cadence but the birds First warbled--then all poets afterwards.

We must get home; and, unremembering there All gain of all ambition otherwhere, Rest--from the feverish victory, and the crown Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.-- Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain-- We must get home--we must get home again!

We must get home again--we must--we must!-- (Our rainy faces pelted in the dust) Creep back from the vain quest through endless strife To find not anywhere in all of life A happier happiness than blest us then ...

We must get home--we must get home again!

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JUST TO BE GOOD

Just to be good-- This is enough--enough!

O we who find sin's billows wild and rough, Do we not feel how more than any gold Would be the blameless life we led of old While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss?

Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough!

It is enough-- Enough--just to be good!

To lift our hearts where they are understood; To let the thirst for worldly power and place Go unappeased; to smile back in G.o.d's face With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss.

Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough!

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MY FRIEND

"He is my friend," I said,-- "Be patient!" Overhead The skies were drear and dim; And lo! the thought of him Smiled on my heart--and then The sun shone out again!

"He is my friend!" The words Brought summer and the birds; And all my winter-time Thawed into running rhyme And rippled into song, Warm, tender, brave and strong.

And so it sings to-day.-- So may it sing alway!

Though waving gra.s.ses grow Between, and lilies blow Their trills of perfume clear As laughter to the ear, Let each mute measure end With "Still he is thy friend."

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THINKIN' BACK

I've ben thinkin' back, of late, S'prisin'!--And I'm here to state I'm suspicious it's a sign Of _age_, maybe, or decline Of my faculties,--and yit I'm not _feelin'_ old a bit-- Any more than sixty-four Ain't no _young_ man any more!

Thinkin' back's a thing 'at grows On a feller, I suppose-- Older 'at he gits, i jack, More he keeps a-thinkin' back!

Old as old men git to be, Er as middle-aged as me, Folks'll find us, eye and mind Fixed on what we've left behind-- Rehabilitatin'-like Them old times we used to hike Out barefooted fer the crick, 'Long 'bout _Aprile first_--to pick Out some "warmest" place to go In a-swimmin'--_Ooh! my-oh!_ Wonder now we hadn't died!

Grate horseradish on my hide Jes' _a-thinkin'_ how cold then That-'ere worter must 'a' ben!

Thinkin' back--W'y, goodness me!

I kin call their names and see Every little tad I played With, er fought, er was afraid Of, and so made _him_ the best Friend I had of all the rest!

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Thinkin' back, I even hear Them a-callin', high and clear, Up the crick-banks, where they seem Still hid in there--like a dream-- And me still a-pantin' on The green pathway they have gone!

Still they hide, by bend er ford-- Still they hide--but, thank the Lord, (Thinkin' back, as I have said), I hear laughin' on ahead!

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NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE