POETRY.
WHEN the sun strikes the motionless palm-trees,
And the sandhills are white with the heat, We long for the breezes of England And the grass that treads soft to the feet.
When the camels march slowly, so slowly, And we rock to the sound of their bells, The song in our heart is of England, 'Tis of Home that it tells Green memories still haunt and evade us, Cool scenes mocking pass and repass; Brief glimpses of parks and green pastures, Soft lawns and wide fields of long grass; And the tyrannous sun is forgotten, Forgotten the glare of its beams, While fancy-enthralled we revisit The Land of our Dreams.
We who dwell in these sun-smitten plain-lands, And work under tropical skies, Where never the East wind blusters, And never a sea-breeze sighs, And never a white sail quivers
Wind-driven and flecked with the foam—
We dream in the silent night watches Of England our Home.
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