Coming Home At Last
When I am dead, I pray that I may go
to a land without shadows, without dreams.
Everything real there: real waters must flow,
pure and crystalline, in heavenly streams.
There must be real birds in every tree,
singing; doves that coo the warm days away;
robins and sparrows chirping merrily
—no killer crows or cruel cats that slay!
Ah, my cherished loves, my long lost ones,
there we shall sit and sing, ‘This is our home!
We have come home at last to summer suns,
golden all day. The perfect day has come!’
All this, my sad heart sighs, it cannot be;
and if it is, it’s not reality.