Travel

I am not home yet nor am like to be
Until more hours lengthen my delay;
The will not be wasted on the way
And yet I groan it lies in front of me.
For though departed my nativity
And come where now I dwell, I cannot say
That I am home; nor could I did I stay
Were I was born, for at home I must see
Her face, and feel her arms entwining mine.
I am not home when I am not with her.
I cannot tell how much I wish I were,
Nor can I make my wayward soul resign
Itself to separation. She is home
And so some hours more I still must roam.