The Prodigal Father

The Prodigal Father The Prodigal father came home tonight, To his mansion fine and tall, And the hearth is swept with its wonted care, And scarce a dust-moat stirs the air, As he treads his spacious hall. The prodigal father came home tonight, For he has been long away, Away from the land of a child's domain, Too occupied with sordid gain, For confidence or play. The prodigal father came home tonight, From his busy turmoil done, With wealth secure and girt with power, What matter he comes at the twilight hour, For where is the prodigal's son? The light streams forth from the mullioned pane, And the curtains' filmy grace Wafts scent of orchid up the stair, But the romping step is no longer there, And where is the laughing face? The prodigal father's son is gone From the mansion tall and grand, What wealth bequeathed can compensate For a sympathy that comes too late, And the cling of a father's hand? The prodigal father came home tonight, And the fatted calf is done, And the guests make merry everywhere, But the father droops in his velvet chair, For where is the prodigal's son? What matters the ring and the silken robe, And the fatted, feasted throng? The human drift of the big outside Can clothe and feed and open wide, And the prodigal's son is gone. Bertha A. Kleinman.