SONNET
My native land is only where you are,
You are my home, my roof-tree, hearth, and fire.
I have been home-sick for you, wandering far,
But now have reached the end of my desire.
You are my kingdom small and very fair,
Your breasts my snowy hills, my lakes your eyes,
Your face my garden, and my woods your hair,
Your breath the breeze of that sweet Paradise.
Lie fenced within the circle of these arms,
Dear country: you whose air to breathe is Peace,
Peace deeper than Death, more soft than Night—
Soother of griefs. Here, safe from wild alarms,
I’ll bide, plucking from off your sighing trees
The fruit of dreams, red apples of delight.