'Tis sweet to him, who all the week
Through city-crowds must push his way,
To stroll alone through fields and woods,
And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.
And sweet it is, in summer bower,
Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,
To celebrate one's marriage-day.
But what is all, to his delight,
Who having long been dommed to roam,
Throws off the bundle from his back,
Before the door of his own home?
Home-sickness is a wasting pang;
This feel I hourly more and more:
There's healing only in thy wings,
Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!
Home-sick. Written In Germany
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Poem topics: alone, children, city, feel, marriage, summer, dear, shore, long, play, sickness, door, delight, celebrate, home, sweet, Valentine's Day, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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