Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/175



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 doom'd 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!