Roderic Quinn

Homeward Going

GRAY smoke in the green leaves,
   Someone homeward going,
No sound in the lone hills...
   Only cattle lowing.
 
Still trees and a hushed world,
   Leaf and limb unshaken,
No wind in the tall grass,
   Creeksides bird-forsaken.
 
Pale, pale and with mute lips
   One in shadow lying—
Near gone from the green world,
   Sorrow nigh him sighing.
 
Day’s strife and a life’s strife
   Each in quiet ending;
Life’s light and the dark of death
   Softly interblending.
 
One star on a far ridge,
   Home the Homeward going,
No sound on the lone hills...
   Only cattle lowing.
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