The Prodigal's Return Poem by Annie Adams Fields

TIS strange indeed! We wander, we forget,
We lose ourselves in countless deeds that fret
And trouble the sad hours; then do we turn
And silent sit, like ashes in an urn,
Beside the waters where in youth we strayed.
The Soul, grown timid, of herself afraid,
Comes with no queenly bearing back to seek
The beautiful green courts wherein none speak
Save voices of the air and the deep sea.
She has forgot that Nature made her free
Once in that land divine, and magic tales
Whispered within the stillness of strange sails
That cross at midnight through the moonlit track
Of ocean, and, unnamed, ne'er venture back.