In Camp

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.