Man that will not be beguiled
Like a fond and happy child
From his toil or futile strife,
Feels within his bosom burning
All the deep, impassioned yearning
Woven in the woof of life.
And though far, with weary feet,
He may wander, Man shall meet
No content until he come—
Soon or late, his fate compelling—
To Love's domed and star-lit dwelling,
For he has no other home.