Here holds my heart, this bit of ground -

A woods, hap-hazard down a hill

With birch and beech, sun-checkered green,

The fern's pale frond along a path,

And hidden by a crumbling log

The Indian pipe grown white and still.

A meadow filled beneath the sun

With all of summer's swift small sounds,

The poignancy of swelling bloom,

Quuen Anne's lace, mustard, golden-rod,

And muted fire against the sky -

The sumac in its clustered mounds.

I have climbed a snow-swept peak,

Watched an ocean froth and foam;

I have crossed a desert's sands

And beauty has been there for me.

Will make my heart cry out for home.