Alfred Edward Housman
Xxii: R L S - Poem by Alfred Edward Housman
Home is the sailor, home from sea:
Her far-borne canvas furled
The ship pours shining on the quay
The plunder of the world.
Home is the hunter from the hill:
Fast in the boundless snare
All flesh lies taken at his will
And every fowl of air.
'Tis evening on the moorland free,
The starlit wave is still:
Home is the sailor from the sea,
The hunter from the hill.
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The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You