Roving, roving, as it seems, Una lights my clouded dreams; Still for journeys she is dressed; We wander far by east and west. In the homestead, homely thought, At my work I ramble not; If from home chance draw me wide, Half-seen Una sits beside. In my house and garden-plot, Though beloved, I miss her not; But one I seek in foreign places, One face explore in foreign faces. At home a deeper thought may light The inward sky with chrysolite, And I greet from far the ray, Aurora of a dearer day. But if upon the seas I sail, Or trundle on the glowing rail, I am but a thought of hers, Loveliest of travellers. So the gentle poet's name To foreign parts is blown by fame, Seek him in his native town, He is hidden and unknown.