Poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall

Duna

WHEN I was a little lad
With folly on my lips,
Fain was I for journeying
All the seas in ships.
But now across the southern swell,
Every dawn I hear
The little streams of Duna
Running clear.

When I was a young man,
Before my beard was gray,
All to ships and sailormen
I gave my heart away.
But I'm weary of the sea-wind,
I'm weary of the foam,
And the little stars of Duna
Call me home.

1. The Hillmans Lass
2. The Immortal
3. The Tree
4. The Lovers of Marchaid
5. The Green Month

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