The days are clear; the sky is blue,
And spring is in the April air,
Yet such sadness as I never knew
Fills all my thoughts with deep despair.

As daylight long and longer grows,
So strong and stronger grows my pain,
And sluggishly life’s current flows
Till I’ll be coming home again.

April 28, 1940



I sat on my porch this evening,
Weary and worn and old,
Tired of endless bright sunlight,
Longing for winter’s deep cold.

Oh, indolent summer evenings–
How welcome will be autumn’s zest,
With her golden days blue-shadowed
And her cool nights filled with rest!

August 22, 1937

Our House

It’s not a very big house.
We haven’t an upstairs.
It’s just an ordinary house
With beds–and books–and chairs.

It’s like a thousand houses
And a hundred thousand more–
With walls, a porch, a chimney,
With windows and a floor.

And yet, to us, it’s different;
It’s set strangely apart,
For each plant and board and thread
Is entangled in our heart.

So many little houses
In this land of the free and blest–
Yet to each family, one house
Is so different from the rest.

December 24, 1939