Among the fields the camomile
Seems blown steam in the lightning's glare.
Unusual odors drench the air.
Night speaks above; the angry smile
Of storm within her stare.
The way for me to-night?—To-night,
Is through the wood whose branches fill
The road with dripping rain-drops. Till,
Between the boughs, a star-like light—
Our home upon the hill.
The path for me to take?—It goes
Around a trailer-tangled rock,
'Mid puckered pink and hollyhock,
Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose,
And door whereat I knock.
Bright on the old-time flower-place
The lamp streams through the foggy pane.
The door is opened to the rain;
And in the door—her happy face,
And eager hands again.