Lost

by Celia Thaxter

Illustrated by W. L. Taylor

Low burns the sunset and the dark is near:
O where is home! O where my mother's face!
The long night is before me, full of fear;
Of the familiar path there is no trace.
The evening wind blows damp upon my cheek,
The stars begin to twinkle high and clear,
In vain for sign of hope or help I seek,
For all is strange and lone and sad and drear.

No human sound comes to my anxious ear,
No cattle low, no dog barks far away,
Only the ripple of the frogs I hear,
And the thrush singing to the dying day.
Under my feet the sweet fern sprays I crush
With tangled vines and dead leaves brown and sere,
Faint spicy odors rise -- a dewy hush
Steals o'er the dusky landscape far and near.

Will never more the lights of home appear?
The blessed lights of home! Where shall I turn,
East, west, north, south, to find a ray of cheer?
Where, in the darkness, do those tapers burn?
Weary, despairing, sorrowful I stray.
How must your heart be aching, mother dear!
O friends who surely seek me, come this way!
O that my cry might reach you! I am here!