From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 28, 1915. By Henry Van Dyke.
Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land,
Along a path I had not traced and could not understand,
I traveled fast for this—to take thee by the hand.
A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend his knee,
A mariner without a dream of what his port will be,
So faced I with a seeking heart until I came to thee.
O cooler than a grove of palm, in some heat-weary place,
O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race,
The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw thy face.
Then furl the sail, let the oar, forget the paths of foam!
The fate that made me wander far at last has brought me home
To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will roam.
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