The fields where you rove may be more fresh and fair,
More splendid the sun, and more fragrant the air,
More lovely the flowers, more refreshing the breeze,
More tranquil the waters, more fruitful the trees.
But home after all things—that dear little spot,
Tho' it be but a desert can ne'er be forgot.
In the thoughts of the day, and the dreams of the night,
On your eyes like the kiss of your mother 'twill light,
Then the mist will disperse which long absence has spread.
And the paths you have trodden again you shall tread.