James Whitcomb Riley (1849–1916)

WHEN she comes home again! A thousand ways

I fashion, to myself, the tenderness

Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble—yes;

And touch her as when first in the old days

I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise

Mine eyes, such was my faint heart’s sweet distress.

Then silence, and the perfume of her dress:

The room will sway a little, and a haze

Cloy eyesight—soulsight, even—for a space:

And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat,

To know that I so ill deserve the place

Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note

I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face

Again is hidden in the old embrace.