by Anderson M. Scruggs (1897-1955)
Some day I shall return to this still soil; —
After the strident years of joy and pain,
The dark, bewildering urge of dreamless toil,
I shall come quietly to this earth again.
Like him of old, the humble prodigal,
Weary of tumult and the world's blind lust,
I shall return as evening shadows fall,
Seeking my birthright in immortal dust.
But I shall find no censure in the hills,
No trace of question in the quiet skies;
Smiling benignly on my little ills,
The great, good heart of woodlands, old and wise,
Will open doors of peace, and bid me stay,
Speaking with silence more than words can say.