HOMESICKNESS by JOHN LAWSON STODDARD

I dwell in a region of valleys fair,
Of stately forests and mountains bold,
Of churches filled with treasures rare,
And storied castles centuries old;
But now and then, when the sun sinks low,
And the vesper bell is softly rung,
I think of the days of long ago,
And yearn for the land where I was young.

I live where the sun shines bright and warm
On feathery palms and terraced vines,
Yet oft I sigh for a boreal storm
And the sough of the wind through northern pines;
And though my ear hath wonted grown
To the accents strange of an alien tongue,
No speech hath half so sweet a tone
As the language learned when I was young.

I live in a land where men are kind,
And friends increase, as the years roll on,
Yet of them all not one I find
So dear as those of the days now gone;
And so I think, as the sun sinks low,
And the curfew bell of my life is rung,
I shall turn to my home of long ago,
And die in the land where I was young.

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