On the Wide Heath

On the wide heath at evening overtaken, 
   When the fast-reddening sun
Drops, and against the sky the looming bracken 
   Waves, and the day is done,

Though no unfriendly nostril snuffs his bone, 
   Though English wolves be dead,
The fox abroad on errands of his own,
   The adder gone to bed,

The weary traveler from his aching hip
   Lengthens his long stride;
Though Home be but a humming on his lip, 
   No happiness, no pride,

He does not drop him under the yellow whin 
   To sleep the darkness through;
Home to the yellow light that shines within
   The kitchen of a loud shrew,

Home over stones and sand, through stagnant water 
   He goes, mile after mile
Home to a wordless poaching son and a daughter
   With a disdainful smile,

Home to the worn reproach, the disagreeing, 
   The shelter, the stale air; content to be 
Pecked at, confined, encroached upon,—it being 
   Too lonely, to be free.