Wanderer's Return

Not the Aegean running cold with silver Under the summer moon’s bright spell, The warm blue fingers of a Grecian wind Striking wildflowers like a bell,

Not the pink clouds that almond trees lift up To envious Italian skies, Nor the swift waking of the slumberous Nile Shaken by ibis and their cries—

Not these my eyes shall feast upon again. I have come home; my flags are furled. I am a captive in your heart’s bright harbor Whose shining waters bind my world.