Poetry Archives

As I near my lonely cottage,
  At the close of weary day,
There’s a little bit of gladness
  Comes to meet me on the way:
Dimpled, tanned, and petticoated,
  Innocent as angels are,
Like a smiling, straying sunbeam
  Is my Stella—like a star.

Soon a hand of tissue-softness
  Slips confidingly in mine,
And with tender look appealing
  Eyes of beauty sweetly shine;
Like a gentle shepherd guiding
  Some lost lamb unto the fold,
So she leads me homeward, prattling
  Till her stories are all told.

“Papa, I’m so glad to see you—
  Cousin Mabel came today—
And the gas-man brought a letter
  That he said you’d better pay—
Yes, and awful things is happened:
  My poor kitty’s drowned to death—
Mamma’s got the ‘Pigs in Clover’—”
  Here she stops for want of breath.

I am like the bold knight-errant,
  From his castle who would roam,
Trusting her, my faithful steward,
  For a strict account of home;
And each day I toil, and hazard
  All that any man may dare,
For a resting-place at even,
  And the love that waits me there.

And sometimes I look with pity
  On my neighbor’s mansion tall:
There are chambers full of pictures,
  There are marbles in the hall,
Yet with all the signs of splendor
  That may gild a pile of stone,
Not a living thing about it
  But the owner, grim and lone.

I believe that all his millions
  He would give without repine
For a little bit of gladness
  In his life, like that in mine;
This it is that makes my pathway
  Beautiful, wherever trod,
Keeps my soul from wreck and ruin,
  Keeps me nearer to my God.