But in the end it was not one of these

That brought me back, nor anything like these

That I have told you. All the fine dreams men have

About their homes, take home's place in the heart

At last. They do not come. The dreams they have

Are of a far place, faintly seen, in time,

And seldom thought on. But in gratitude

Some do go back, and some in pride, and some

Come broken, but on all the city marks

A mark, and these are never of their home

Again, however they come back. But I -

I had no dream, The city was my life,

I had forgotten I had forgotten.

It was a look I caught in a boy's eye

By chance one day. He was a stranger there,

Just come, still frightened at the purposeful

Great rushing crowds, the streets, the roar, the dust

And loud bewilderment. But in his eyes,

Between his heart, and the heart-sickening

City, stood a clear picture of his home.

My mind went back some thirty years. I saw

Myself, just as I stood, a stranger then

With home in my eyes, and a few hot tears.

That's why I'm back here, if you understand.