To the peace and rest of the Great Unguessed . . . at last, Tom Thorne, at last. When I was barely seven. Weathered cheek and kindly eye, let the wanderer go by. Woman-love and wistful heart, let the gipsy one depart. For the farness and the road are his glory and his goad.
Eyes laugh and lips sing.
Grey and weary . Yet there comes a subtile change, let the stripling rove, range. From sweet roving comes sweet rest, after all, home's best. Back to the index. Back to the Poets' Corner - Home Page .