Home is the Sailor
Home is the Sailor, home from the sea:
Her far-borne canvas furled
The ship pours shining on the quay
The plunder of the world.
Home is the hunter, home from the hills:
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.
A.E. Housman
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