But mine must take me way back home,
Where the sunsets glimmer against the green,
And dewdrops whisper and skim unseen.
"Winds which rush my tale to thee",
Glide like snakes, so gently,
Hence my voice may reach you, clear,
And like music may to you adhere.
The slopes that bring the river home,
Will slide you over sand and stone,
Past ''two mules, train and rain,''
Meandering into my bed again.
Imagine the sun then on my bed,
Dappled with many trees outspread.
Though not before we adore the moon,
That marches through the starry gloom.
Thence all will be clear to thee;
Like a pleasant State decree,
That home is where you're meant to be,
And that you really belong to me.
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