In Camp
by Lyman H. Sproull
We are here tonight
'Neath the canvas white,
In the midst of these lonely hills;
Where the windy sigh
Of the stormy sky,
Our hearts with a sadness fills.
The river moans
O'er the tumbled stones.
From the clefts of the canons torn
By the hand of frost;
While the peaks are lost
In the wings of a mountain storm.
We can hear the pelt,
On the canvas dealt,
Of the snow and the driven sleet;
While our fancies rove
To the homes we love,
And the ones that we fain would meet.
Here under the roof
Of our water-proof,
We may dream of the valley land;
Of the garden fair,
And the cottage there,
And the touch of a loved one's hand.
We may dream tonight
Of the nursery light,
And the ones we would die to save;
Of the prayer said
By the baby's bed,
And the kiss which the mother gave;
We may dream tonight
Of the cottage light,
Forgetting the dark and cold
Of the present place;
And our eager race
Thro' these lonely lands for gold.
'Neath the canvas white,
In the midst of these lonely hills;
Where the windy sigh
Of the stormy sky,
Our hearts with a sadness fills.
The river moans
O'er the tumbled stones.
From the clefts of the canons torn
By the hand of frost;
While the peaks are lost
In the wings of a mountain storm.
We can hear the pelt,
On the canvas dealt,
Of the snow and the driven sleet;
While our fancies rove
To the homes we love,
And the ones that we fain would meet.
Here under the roof
Of our water-proof,
We may dream of the valley land;
Of the garden fair,
And the cottage there,
And the touch of a loved one's hand.
We may dream tonight
Of the nursery light,
And the ones we would die to save;
Of the prayer said
By the baby's bed,
And the kiss which the mother gave;
We may dream tonight
Of the cottage light,
Forgetting the dark and cold
Of the present place;
And our eager race
Thro' these lonely lands for gold.
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