The Exile

Now I return to my own land and people,

Old familiar things so to recover,

Hedgerows and little lanes and meadows,

The friendliness of my own land and people.

I have seen a world-frieze of glowing orange,

Palms painted black on the satin horizon,

Palm-trees in the dusk and the silence standing

Straight and still against a background of orange;

A gorgeous magical pomp of light and colour,

A dream-world, a sparkling gem in the sunlight,

The minarets and domes of an Eastern city;

And in the midst of all the pomp of colour

My heart cried out for my own land and people;

My heart cried out for the lush meadows of England,

The hedgerows and little lanes of England,

And for the faces of my own people.