HOME-SICK

WRITTEN IN GERMANY

'Tis sweet to him, who all the week

　Through city-crowds must push his way,

To stroll alone through fields and woods,

　And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,

　Sincere, affectionate and gay,

One's own dear children feasting round,

　To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all to his delight,

　Who having long been doomed to roam,

Throws off the bundle from his back,

　Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

　This feel I hourly more and more:

There's healing only in thy wings,

　Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!

May 6, 1799