Happy the man who can long roam-ing reap... by May Sarton
Happy the man who can long roam-ing reap, Like old Ulysses when he shaped his course Homeward at last toward the native source, Seasoned and stretched to plant his dreaming deep. When shall I see the chimney smoke once more Of my own village; in a fervent hour When maples blaze or lilac is in flower Push open wide again my plain white door?
Here is a little province, poor and kind -- Warmer than marble is the weathered wood; Dearer than holy Ganges, the wild brook; And sweeter than old Greece to this one mind. A ragged pasture, open green, white steeple, And these whom I have come to call my people.
