Returning
The whirling fields wide sown with grain, The rugged hills and limpid streams,The woodland haunts as wrought of dreams, But oh, there's not the joy of home.
The mountains bonded in the clouds, The hazy distance I from thee,The peaceful ways and winding roads, There's not the rest of home to me.
The river, placid, dull and grey, The curling mist upon the sand,And to the leaward, and away, The drifting depths of shadowland.
The storming ocean and its roar, The white gull breasting wave and foam,The rocking boats along the shore, But oh, there's not the joy of home.
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