Home is the sailor, home from sea: Her far-borne canvas furled The ship pours shining on the quay The plunder of the world. Home is the hunter from the hill:

Loitering with a vacant eye Along the Grecian gallery, And brooding on my heavy ill, I met a statue standing still. Still in marble stone stood he,

The sloe was lost in flower, The April elm was dim; That was the lover’s hour, The hour for lies and him. If thorns are all the bower,

Onward led the road again Through the sad uncoloured plain Under twilight brooding dim, And along the utmost rim Wall and rampart risen to sight

The half-moon westers low, my love… And the wind brings up the rain; And wide apart lie we, my love, And seas between the twain. I know not if it rains, my love,

Now hollow fires burn out to black… And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your p… And leave your friends and go. Oh never fear, man, nought’s to dr…

ALONG the field as we came by A year ago, my love and I, The aspen over stile and stone Was talking to itself alone. ‘Oh who are these that kiss and pa…

The winds out of the west land blo… My friends have breathed them ther… Warm with the blood of lads I kno… Comes east the sighing air. It fanned their temples, filled th…

I hoed and trenched and weeded, And took the flowers to fair: I brought them home unheeded; The hue was not the wear. So up and down I sow them

ow dreary dawns the eastern light, And fall of eve is drear, And cold the poor man lies at nigh… And so goes out the year. Little is the luck I’ve had,

Wake: the silver dusk returning Up the beach of darkness brims, And the ship of sunrise burning Strands upon the eastern rims. Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,

'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock to… The golden broom should blow; The hawthorn sprinkled up and down Should charge the land with snow. Spring will not wait the loiterer’…

Ho, everyone that thirsteth And hath the price to give, Come to the stolen waters, Drink and your soul shall live. Come to the stolen waters,

Say, lad, have you things to do? Quick then, while your day’s at pr… Quick, and if 'tis work for two, Here am I man: now’s your time. Send me now, and I shall go;

'Tis spring; come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found.