'Tis sweet to him, who all the week <br />Through city-crowds must push his way, <br />To stroll alone through fields and woods, <br />And hallow thus the Sabbath-day. <br /> <br />And sweet it is, in summer bower, <br />Sincere, affectionate and gay, <br />One's own dear children feasting round, <br />To celebrate one's marriage-day. <br /> <br />But what is all, to his delight, <br />Who having long been dommed to roam, <br />Throws off the bundle from his back, <br />Before the door of his own home? <br /> <br />Home-sickness is a wasting pang; <br />This feel I hourly more and more: <br />There's healing only in thy wings, <br />Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!<br /><br />Samuel Taylor Coleridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/home-sick-written-in-germany/
