It is not when the seamew cries above the grey-green foam Or circling o'er the bracken-fields the fluttering lapwings fly, Or when above the broom and gale the lark is in his windy home That thus I long, and with old longing sigh. For I am far away now, and now have time for sighing, For sighing and for longing, where the grey houses stand. In dreams I am a seamew flying, flying, flying To where my heart is, in my own lost land. It is when in the crowded streets the rustling of white willows And tumbling of a brown hill-water obscure the noisy ways; Then is the ache a bitter pain; and to hear grey-green billows, Or the hill-wind in a broom-sweet place. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO STATECRAFT EMBALMED by MARIANNE MOORE TO THE SMALL CELANDINE (1) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE MARCH OF XERXES by LUIGI ALAMANNI THANKSGIVING DAY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 38. AL-KABIR by EDWIN ARNOLD SONG ON THE WATER (2) by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |