IT is strange how we travel the wide world over, And see great churches and foreign streets, And armies afoot and kings of wonder, And deeds a-doing to fill the sheets That grave historians will pen To ferment the brains of simple men. And all the time the heart remembers The quiet habit of one far place, The drawings and books, the turn of a passage, The glance of a dear familiar face, And there is the true cosmopolis, While the thronging world a phantom is. |