Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house,
Which he kindled the night I went away?
I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,
And marked it gleam with a golden ray;
Did he think to light me home some day?
Hungry here with the crunching swine,
Hungry harvest have I to reap;
In a dream I count my Father's kine,
I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep,
I watch his lambs that browse and leap.
There is plenty of bread at home,
His servants have bread enough and to spare;
The purple wine-fat froths with foam,
Oil and spices make sweet the air,
While I perish hungry and bare.
Rich and blessed those servants, rather
Than I who see not my Father's face!
I will arise and go to my Father:-
“Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,
Grant me. Father, a servant's place.”
A Prodigal Son
Christina Rossetti
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Poem topics: away, dream, house, light, night, purple, sweet, grant, sheep, place, hear, face, lamp, golden, beneath, fallen, watch, perish, Valentine's Day, home, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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