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.