Take Me Home
By Achsa White Sprague
Oh, take me home! I cannot bear
In this strange land to die,
With stranger hands to smooth my brow,
And close my dying eye.
My mother through the weary hours
Is waiting me to come;
I cannot die in this strange land, --
Oh, take me, take me home!
The tones I hear are strangers' tones; --
Familiar sounds and dear
Seem far away, -- so far away
They cannot reach me here.
Why, far away from that loved spot,
Dear kindred, did I roam?
I cannot die in this strange land, --
Oh, take me, take me home!
How, can I rest within my shroud,
That stranger hands should make?
How can I sleep within my grave? --
My mother's heart will break!
The sun may shine upon that grave,
The fragrant air may come;
Yet who could rest in this strange land?
Oh, take me, take me home!
I miss my mother's hand to wipe
The death-damp from my brow;
I miss the last grasp of her hand,
I miss her strangely now.
Alone, I cannot find my way
To Heaven's eternal dome:
Let me not die in this strange land, --
Oh, take me, take me home!
Source Book
The Poet And Other Poems.
by Achsa White Sprague
Copyright 1864
Published by Boston: William White And Co.,
158 Washington Street.
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Take Me Home
by Achsa White Sprague
