The Home Lights

"In my father's house!" The words
Bring sweet cadence to my ears.
Wandering thoughts, like homing birds,
Fly all swiftly down the years,
To that wide casement, where I always see
Bright love-lamps leaning out to welcome me.

Sweet it was, how sweet to go
To the worn, familiar door.
No need to stand a while, and wait,
Outside the well-remembered gate;
No need to knock;
The easy lock
Turned almost of itself, and so
My spirit was "at home" once more.
And then, within, how good to find
The same cool atmosphere of peace,
Where I, a tired child, might cease
To grieve, or dread,
Or toil for bread.
I could forget
The dreary fret.
The strivings after hopes too high,
I let them every one go by.
The ills of life, the blows unkind,
These fearsome things were left behind.

ENVOY.

O trembling soul of mine,
See how God's mercies shine!
When thou shalt rise,
And, stripped of earth, shall stand
Within an Unknown Land;
Alone, where no familiar thing
May bring familiar comforting;
Look up! 'Tis but thy Father's House! And, see
His love-lamps leaning out to welcome thee!

Fay Inchfawn

Fay Inchfawn was the pen name of Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, a prolific British author and poet born in 1880. She published a variety of works, including poetry, essays, and books on homemaking, and was known for her cheerful, optimistic writing style. Her works often focused on domestic life and faith, resonating particularly with female readers in the early to mid-20th century. Beyond her literary output, little is widely known about her personal life. Fay Inchfawn passed away in 1978.

Fay Inchfawn

Two Women

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

To Mother

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

Listening

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

English

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Within my House

First, there's the entrance, narrow, and so small,
The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall;
That staircase, too, has such an awkward bend,
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How often had I railed against these things,
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I watched them from the window, thy children at their play,
And I thought of all my own dear friends, who were far, oh, far away,
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I looked upon thy children, and I thought of all and each,
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A Home.

What is a home? A guarded space,
Wherein a few, unfairly blest,
Shall sit together, face to face,
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The common pain, and pad and screen
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Where Art may blossom strong and free,
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A precious and peculiar thing?

And Past and Future, softly veiled
In hiding mists, shall float and lie
Forgotten half, and unassailed
By either hope or memory,

While the luxurious Present weaves
Her perfumed spells untried, untrue,
Broiders her garments, heaps her sheaves,
All for the pleasure of a few?

Can it be this, the longed-for thing

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Just when the gentle hand of spring
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I thought it pleasant when a manly sire
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