Now are harboured ships asleep

Beside their shadows,

Home from the wind-winnowed deep

And unscythed meadows

Of the bright green gliding sea,

From the windward gliding to the lee;

And one ship in port to-day

On the morrow

Southward bound will far away

The swift sea furrow;

Whom the loud Antarctic waits

And frozen citadels with creaking gates.

I have a home, though palmer bound

For holy lands, I pine for it;

I know its sheltering walls around

The hearth and lamp that shine for it,

The door apart;

I shall return on windward seas

By blue shores of Illyria

To find it filled with melodies

From Eden, beyond Syria.

It is your heart.