To Amy Wainwright
This is the time the boys come home from school,
Filling the house with gay and happy noise,
Never at rest from morn till evening cool --
All the roads of the world bring home the boys.

This is the time -- but still they are not come;
The mothers stand in the doorway listening long;
Long, long they shall wait ere the boys come home.
Where do they tarry, the dear, the light-heart throng?

Their feet are heavy as lead and deep their rest.
The mothers watch the road till set of sun;
But nevermore the birds fly back to the nest.
The roads of the world run Heavenward every one.