Home no more home to me, whither must I wander? Hunger my driver, I go where I must. Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather; Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust. Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree. The true word of welcome was spoken in the door— Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight, Kind folks of old, you come again no more. Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces, Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child. Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland; Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild. Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland, Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold. Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed, The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old. R. L. S. TO J. A. SYMONDS _November_ 11_th_ 1888. _One November night_, _in the village of Tautira_, _we sat at the high table in the hall of assembly_, _hearing the natives sing_. _It was dark in the hall_, _and very warm_; _though at times the land wind blew a little shrewdly through the chinks_, _and at times_, _through the larger openings_, _we could see the moonlight on the lawn_. _As the songs arose in the rattling Tahitian chorus_, _the chief translated here and there a verse_. _Farther on in the volume you shall read the songs themselves_; _and I am in hopes that not you only_, _but all who can find a savour in the ancient poetry of places_, _will read them with some pleasure_. _You are to conceive us_, _therefore_, _in strange circumstances and very pleasing_; _in a strange land and climate_, _the most beautiful on earth_; _surrounded by a foreign race that all travellers have agreed to be the most engaging_; _and taking a double interest in two foreign arts_.