November 1953
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.
But goldenrod along a road
Will make my heart cry out for home.