The fire burns bright <br />And the hearth is clean swept, <br />As she likes it kept, <br />And the lamp is alight. <br />She is coming to-night. <br /> <br />The wind's east of late. <br />When she comes, she'll be cold, <br />So the big chair is rolled <br />Close up to the grate, <br />And I listen and wait. <br /> <br />The shutters are fast, <br />And the red curtains hide <br />Every hint of outside. <br />But hark, how the blast <br />Whistled then as it passed! <br /> <br />Or was it the train? <br />How long shall I stand, <br />With my watch in my hand, <br />And listen in vain <br />For the wheels in the lane? <br /> <br />Hark! A rumble I hear <br />(Will the wind not be still?), <br />And it comes down the hill, <br />And it grows on the ear, <br />And now it is near. <br /> <br />Quick, a fresh log to burn! <br />Run and open the door, <br />Hold a lamp out before <br />To light up the turn, <br />And bring in the urn. <br /> <br />You are come, then, at last! <br />O my dear, is it you? <br />I can scarce think it true <br />I am holding you fast, <br />And sorrow is past.<br /><br />Robert Fuller Murray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/welcome-home-3/
