Written in the prison Infirmary, February, 1850.
To a quiet land I’m steering;
Steering ever, day and night;
A sailor-wreck unfearing-
In a life-boat frail and slight.
No polar compass guides me,
On whatever course I stand
Assured to find my haven
When I least expect the land.
Nor sail, nor oar, nor engine
I need to make my way;
For storms cannot impede me,
And calms cannot delay.
Oh! the bells above the harbour
Will sound me solemn cheers!
An exile home-returning
From his wayfare of long years.
And in that quiet country
I own a quiet home;
‘Tis built of quarried marble,
With a heavy leaden dome.
My banquet-hall is narrow,
But ’tis lined with arras light;
With an oaken couch to lie on
In a garment waxy white.
And though the door be fastened
My guests will find their way
Ill numbers unexhausted,
And, uninvited, stay.
And yet my best, ungrudging,
Before them shall be set;
They’ll feed upon my substance,
But to thank their host forget.
And, when their fill they’ve eaten,
One by one they’ll drop away;
And my stony house shall moulder
With a gradual, still decay.
And golden wheat and roses
Shall grow above the spot;
But my children’s children, haply,
Shall pass, and know it not.
(Ernest Jones)
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Based on Topics: Night Poems, Light Poems, Home Poems, Children PoemsBased on Keywords: quarried, unexhausted, uninvited, unfearing, impede, banquet-hall, waxy, infirmary, life-boat, home-returning, ungrudging