Home Is the Sailor

Home is the sailor, home from sea:
            Her far-borne canvas furled.
The ship pours shining on the quay,
            The plunder of the world.

Home is the hunter, home from the hill:
            Fast in the boundless snare.
All flesh lies taken at his will,
            And every fowl of air.

'Tis evening on the moorland free:
            The starlit wave is still.
Home is the sailor from the sea,
            The hunter home from the hill.

A.E. Housman