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...REALITY REQUIRES by WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA THE JOYS OF THE ROAD by BLISS CARMAN HAWTHORNE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW BOOKS ET VERITAS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET MISAPPELLATION by STEPHANIE L. BINCKLI THE CHILD'S GRAVE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE CARNIVAL OF 1848 by WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER |