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My Dear Son

Oh, my dear son, the winds, the winds are calling From field to field and down the darkening road. The summer fades, the crimson leaves are falling; Your path lies on, while I must bear my load. But come you home when summer fills the meadow, Or when the hills lie silent under snow; For I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow— Oh, my dear son, my son, I love you so. Oh, my dear son, the years, the years go turning; The boy I held now walks a distant way. Yet in my heart the quiet fire is burning— A father’s love that time cannot allay. So come you home when harvest moons are glowing, Or when the frost lies silver on the plain; My door will stand, my hearth will still be glowing— Oh, my dear son, come home to me again. And if you come when autumn leaves are falling, And find the chair beside the fire set still, Then know my voice is in the night wind calling, And all the fields are whispering my will. For though I sleep beneath the churchyard willow, Your name will warm the earth that covers me; And you will know, above my quiet pillow— My son, my son, how dear you are to me. So walk your road where distant stars are shining, Be brave and kind wherever you may roam; For all my days, through joy or through repining, My heart will keep a light to guide you home. And when the years like evening bells are tolling, And life grows still as twilight on the sea, Remember this, though time be onward rolling— My son, my son, you’ll always be to me.