HOME-SICK

HE sees the white moon climb the city skies, Far over rank, black roofs and balconies, And with her spectral radiance anoint The slender lance of every steeple point. Beneath his gaze, the brilliant streets converge, And through the avenues the people surge. Behind him are his walls where, numb and old His books and pictures seem aloof and cold. Below, he hears the gong and shout and call; Sees the blank grief of many a plastered wall, And bows himself upon the window sill, In a communion motionless and still. He leaves the temples where the merchants trade, Leaves bright bazaar and marble collanade, And hand and hand with the white moon he strays Away to leafy lanes and country ways. He vizualizes green of plashy mead Of kneedeep grass, where lowing cattle feed, Of orchard slope, scalloped with rosy bloom And purple lilacs bursting into plume. Electric beads may dot the cities plain, But in his heart old candles flare again; Old doors stand open, and beside old stiles He leans, and listens as in other whiles. So dreams; so wanders back to youth and home, To swelling farms, to rich hill-breasted loam; So hand in hand with the young moon he strays Out of the city gates to the old days.