Explore "Free" by Helen Hay Whitney on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Beyond the hill the hearth fires burn, A hundred flags in air, But one which tossed but yesterday Is dead, one hearth is bare.
The wife whose fingers fed the fire Grew weary of the play, A lad laughed thro' the open door And stole my dear away.
And now alone I face the road; No hearth, no home for me. And yet -- Ah Life! -- come sun, come rain, My beggar soul is free.