I grow weary of the foreign cities by Bliss Carman

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I grow weary of the foreign cities, / The sea travel and the stranger peoples. / Even the clear voice of hardy fortune / Dares me not as once on brave adventure.

For the heart of man must seek and wander, / Ask and question and discover knowledge; / Yet above all goodly things is wisdom, / And love greater than all understanding.

So, a mariner, I long for land-fall, -- / When a darker purple on the sea-rim, / O'er the prow uplifted, shall be Lesbos / And the gleaming towers of Mitylene.

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