I am not happy here, mother! I pine to go to you; I weary for your voice and smile, Your love -- the fond and true! My English home is cold, mother, And dark and lonely too! I never shall be happy here, -- I pine to go to you! Full many a simple melody I make of home and you; But no one loves and sings the song As Lizzie used to do! I've friends, who kindly welcome give, And whom I'll ne'er forget; But they love others more than me, And I am not their pet! In at my lattice laughs the sun, And plays about my feet; I'd welcome it if you were here Its summer warmth to greet! The sky ne'er seems so blue, mother, -- So balmy soft the air! And oh! the flowers are not so pure As those I used to wear! My baby Ellen gayly plays, But none are here to note, With partial praise, her winning ways, Or catch the gems that float -- The gems of thought that sparkle o'er Her mind's untroubled sea; Then vanish in its depths before We well know what they be! How oft, when lovelier than their wont Her cheeks' pure roses glow, And fairer 'neath the sunlit hair Her veined temples show, I want it watch'd by other eye, That face -- so bright to me; And sigh, "If mother now were by! -- If Lizzie could but see!" Oh! my English home is cold, mother, And dark and lonely too; I never shall be happy here, -- I pine to go to you! I will not call it "home," mother, From those I love so far! -- That only can be home to me, Where you and Lizzie are. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE NOTHING II by HAYDEN CARRUTH PURSUIT OF THE WORD by ROBERT FROST HOW THEY GO ON by JAMES GALVIN THE COTTON CLUB by CLARENCE MAJOR I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU' by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |