Going Home.

Going Home.
528.4

I tread each mountain waste austere,
Lpass dark pinelands, hill by liat;
Each tardy sunrise brings me near,
Vach lonely sunset nearer still.

Slag low, my heart, of other lands
And suns we may have loved, or Inown:
This silent North, it understands,
And saks but little of its own!

Whether all loveliness It Iles;
Or but a lone waste acarred and torn,
How shall I know? For ‘neath these skies
And in these valleys I was born!
-Arthur Stringer.