Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure: Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call; Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, And hear no more at all. Put my soul in a bottle that the north wind may find it, Give it to the white-handed reacher of the sea, And let it be scattered like a seagull, when behind it Whistles the wind of thee. Hills of home! Revisited Hills of home! The above is written By a wayfarer on a stormy sea; In the waste of waters worn and bitten, Day and night, remembering thee! |