A.E. Housman (1859–1936)

Home is the sailor, home from sea:

        Her far-borne canvas furled

The ship pours shining on the quay

        The plunder of the world.

Home is the hunter from the hill:

        Fast in the boundless snare

All flesh lies taken at his will

        And every fowl of air.

’Tis evening on the moorland free,

        The starlit wave is still:

Home is the sailor from the sea,

        The hunter from the hill.