Foreign Hills

You would not think that, lost so young
         Here in this outer land,
I still should feel my spirit wrung
   And still not understand . . .

Though Grenstone is the name they said,
   And though I pack my load
And though my cap is on my head —
  What do I care which road?

What does it matter where I go,
   When all I do is roam
Far from a place I used to know,
   From hills and streams of home?

And foreign waters only smart
   The lips that they caress
And foreign hills but bruise the heart
   With vanished happiness.