REALITY

It is strange how we travel the wide world over,

And see great churches and foreign streets,

And armies afoot and kings of wonder,

And deeds a-doing to fill the sheets

That grave historians will pen

To ferment the brains of simple men.

And all the time the heart remembers

The quiet habit of one far place,

The drawings and books, the turn of a passage,

The glance of a dear familiar face,

And there is the true cosmopolis,

While the thronging world a phantom is.