The speaker has loved everything the world offers—seasons, friends, love, crowds, solitude—but he has grown so familiar with them that their meaning is exhausted. He longs to return home, yet this home is not a place he has left behind; it’s one he has never seen, a land no traveler has ever found. That is the root of his grief. Even if he could discover it, he suspects happiness or pain there would only turn into dreams of wanting to come back to what he now knows. Remembering even small, unfixable hurts brings a sharper, dirtier ache than recalling joys. So he resigns himself: he cannot go back, and doesn’t want to. He must simply wait until blindness comes, and meanwhile blink at the world’s flaws. The mood is one of weary stillness, a quiet, unhealed homesickness for a place that may not exist.
Home — Summary
NOT the end: but there's nothing more. Sweet Summer and Winter rude I have loved, and friendship and love, The crowd and solitude:
But I know them: I weary not; But all that they mean I know. I would go back again home Now. Yet how should I go?
This is my grief. That land, My home, I have never seen; No traveller tells of it, However far he has been.
Afid could I discover it, I fear my happiness there, Or my pain, might be dreams of return Here, to these things that were.
Remembering ills, though slight Yet irremediable, Brings a worse, an impurer pang Than remembering what was well.
No: I cannot go back, And would not if I could. Until blindness come, I must wait And blink at what is not good.