My land was the west land; my home was on the hill,
I never think of my land but it makes my heart to thrill;
I never smell the west wind that blows the golden skies,
But old desire is in my feet and dreams are in my eyes.
My home crowned the high land; it had a stately grace.
I never think of my land but I see my mother's face;
I never smell the west wind that blows the silver ships
But old delight is in my heart and mirth is on my lips.
My land was a high land; my home was near the skies.
I never think of my land but a light is in my eyes;
I never smell the west wind that blows the summer rain --
But I am at my mother's knee, a little lad again.
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Comments about this poem (The Homeland by Dana Burnet )
- Sips through lips, Aftab Alam
- The Mature Woman 2, Tex T Sarnie
- Invitation for Re - Opening Ceremony!, sisirachandra vaduge
- Unbarreled Gun, Edwin Cordero
- Thread of thought, Roann Mendriq
- Baking Bread, Roann Mendriq
- Completion, White Lily
- Tears, Michael McParland
- Spin of a coin, Tribhawan Kaul
- Knowing Fragments, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
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