Explore "Home" by Fannie Stearns Davis on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Home, to the hills and the rough, running water; Home, to the plain folk and cold winds again. Oh, I am only a gray farm's still daughter, Spite of my wandering passion and pain!
Home, from the city that snares and enthralls me; Home, from the bold light and bold weary crowd. Oh, it's the blown snow and bare field that calls me; White star and shy dawn and wild lonely cloud!