Homeward

Through a long lane winding 'twixt rows of trees
With a robin trilling his evening lay,
And the sweet scent of clover borne down on the breeze,
And the cattle lowing at close of day,
I plod along on my homeward way
To the cottage that stands at the long lane's end;
I come from the fields where the toil was gay--
Home as the deepening shadows blend
And the long light fades in the curtained west.
Well has the day's sweet toil been done,
And I come to my loved one's waiting breast,
To the night's sweet rest I have won.

-- Willard Weaver Rusk