Here as I sit this summer day,
On a seat at a door in a little town,
Trains, about fifty yards away,
With a rattle and roar rush up and down.
They carry to all the ends of the earth,
The restless hearts that must ever roam;
But happier they who were touched at birth,
With the simple wish for their land at home.
Better by far is the homely speech,
The street and the fields their boyhood knew;
Than the hurry of feet, and the toil to reach
The visions that vanish as visions do.