AFTER LONG WANDERING
I will go back to Gloucestershire,
To the spot where I was born,
To the talk at eve with men and women
And song on the roads at morn.
And I’ll sing as I tramp by dusty hedges
Or drink my ale in the shade
How Gloucestershire is the finest home
That the Lord God ever made.
First I will go to the ancient house
Where Doomsday book was planned,
And cool my body and soul in shade
Of pillars huge which stand
Where the organ echoes thunder-like
Its paean of triumph and praise
In a temple lovely as ever the love
Of Beauty’s God did raise.
Gargoyles will thrust out heads to hearken,
A frozen forest of stone
Echo behind me as I pass
Out of the shadow alone
To buzz and bustle of Barton Fair
And its drifting droves of sheep,
To find three miles away the village
Where I will sleep.
Minsterworth, queen of riverside places
(Save Framilode, who can vie?),
To her I’ll go when day has dwindled
And the light low in the sky;
And my troubles shall fall from me, a bundle,
And youth come back again,
Seeing the smoke of her houses and hearing
The talk of Minsterworth men.
I’ll drink my perry and sing my song
Of home and home again,
Pierced with the old miraculous pleasure
Keen as sharpest pain;
And if I rise to sing on the morrow
Or if I die in my bed,
’Tis all the same: I’ll be home again,
And happy alive or dead.