Tastes on the air sweet as honey in the honey-comb.
Smells not the hearth-smoke better than spices of India?
Are not children’s kisses dearer than ivory and pearls?
And sleep in the hill kinder than nameless water
And the cold, wandering foam?
Dear are the names of home, I heard a far voice answer,
Pleasant the tilled valley, the flocks and farms; and sweet
The hum in cities of men, and words of our own kin.
But we have tasted wild fruit, listened to strange music;
And all shores of the earth are but as doors of an inn;