Thou
bring’st the sailor to his wife,
And travell’d men from foreign lands;
And letters unto trembling hands;
And,
thy dark freight, a vanish’d life.
So
bring him: we have idle dreams:
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies: O to us,
The
fools of habit, sweeter seems
To
rest beneath the clover sod,
That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The
chalice of the grapes of God;
Than
if with thee the roaring wells
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine;
And hands so often clasp’d in mine,
Should
toss with tangle and with shells.