A POEM

Please read note above.

The Wanderer

Oh, English air is fresh and pure

And English homes are bright;

But I must wander far away

And set my course tonight.

The English breeze will stir the leaves,

But I shall not be here

When Spring goes tripping coyly out

And Summer crowns the year.

The Summer sounds I love so well

I shall not hear again:

The merry children running free

And shouting through the lane;

The liquid flutes of little birds

And, melting in a dream,

The whisper of the swaying boughs,

The murmur of the stream.

The wagons rumbling up the road,

The droning of the bees,

The parliament of busy rooks

That caw about the trees.

The air will fill with English songs,

But I shall hear no more

Till God shall bid me steer for home

And set me on the shore.

Oh, then I’ll wander back again

And seek the place I knew

When all the world was young and fair

And all the tales were true.

And I may find a hand or two

That keep a grip for me….

When I come back to English earth

From tossing on the sea.

By Rudolph Chambers Lehmann

1856-1929