{"character_count": 544, "word_count": 105, "ccnet_language_score": [0.9409000277519226], "ccnet_perplexity": [2111.0], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
The thought of home is ever there, Like sad bird with fixed eye That never shuts, but on the air Gazeth with deep intensity And when the hand of Death may seem Upon tho universe around, As at this hour of coming dream, When hushed is all the days light sound i; When pine, and snow, and rock, and hea-

 ven,

 Are shadowed by sleep's waving wing Sleep. so like death, that in the even They seem the self-same sombre thing When all is thus, 1t can but bring That lone-eyed thought to me again, And or the heart 1t falls like cold winter

 rain.