I.—Detachment

They think this place is all there is of earth—
Its fellowships the one thing worthy strife,
Its endless books the only end of life.
'Tis not for me; for me of dearer worth
Is one far home which overlooked the birth
Of day—long slanting beams that touched the waves
And wrought their grey to silver; fashioned caves
Within the clouds; and struck the night with dearth;
One home whence I could to the woods repair
Of tree-ferns tall, or cliffs that rose above
White-winged gulls. But more than this, 'twas there
I knew the first sweet shock of timid love . . . .
High seas and continents have come between,
But that is where my heart has ever been.