The Ruined Home Poem by Annie Adams Fields

AT nightfall, coming from the wood,
I crossed the hilltop's gloomy brow,
Where one unsheltered farmhouse stood,
Neglected, dark, and low.

No lamp announced a breathing soul;
The chimney's blue, reluctant thread
Alone betrayed a living coal
Of life, all else seemed dead.

At length, observing curiously
And gazing back as on I went,
One little pale face I could see
Close to the window bent.

And in my mind I saw all night
That child's face watching by the pane;
Once more I passed that weary height
And lingered there again.

At dawn I rose, and, walking forth,
Met one who toiled upon the road,
Morning or evening nothing loth
With talk to ease his load.

He told me that be knew when first
The sunshine played across that floor,
And the bright buds of spring-time burst
Around that household door, --

And gayer than the buds of spring,
More musical than summer birds,
The songs a happy wife would sing
'Mid lowing of the herds.

Swift are the steps that lead to ill,
Friendly the sparkling cup appears,
And idlers share the bowl until
The scene must end in tears.

Hour after hour his passion grew;
Quickly the power of will can cease;
Haunted by dreadful shapes, he knew
No more the days of peace.

She watched him till the arms of death
Laid her upon the earth's calm breast.
May not her love and prayers have breath
To bring him into rest?

Now day and night the little maid,
His only child, scarce ten years old,
Still watches, never once afraid
Of darkness nor of cold.

The morning sun was brave and gay
And birds were filling earth with song,
While yet my heart pursued that way,
That rocky hill of wrong.

I saw the child beside the pane
Still gazing on the clouded sky;
Her solitude was mine again,
And mine her agony.