human
Along my father's dykes I roam again, Among the willows by the river-side. These miles of green I know from hill to tide And every creek and river's ruddy stain. Neglected long and shunned, our dead here lain. Here where a people's dearest hope has died, Alone of all their children scattered wide, I scan the sad memorials that remain. The dykes wave with the grass, but not for me, The oxen stir not while this stranger calls. From these new homes upon the green hill-side, Where speech is strange and this new people free, No voice cries out in welcome; for these halls Give food and shelter where I may not bide.