Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Home-Sick. Written In Germany

'Tis sweet to him, who all the week
  Through city-crowds must push his way,
To stroll alone through fields and woods,
  And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,
  Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,
  To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,
  Who having long been dommed to roam,
Throws off the bundle from his back,
  Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;
  This feel I hourly more and more:
There's healing only in thy wings,
  Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!

1. To a Lady, Offended by a Sportive Observation That Women Have No Souls
2. Duty Surviving Self-Love, the Only Sure Friend of Declining Life
3. To the Autumnal Moon
4. The Picture, Or The Lover's Resolution
5. What Is an Epigram?

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