To James Russell Lowell

What rarer, finer bliss than his who feels,
While happy friends and neighbors press his hands,
The warmth of handclasps given in other lands
Still left upon his palms? Though o'er him steals
The rapture of home-coming, on its heels
Follows the joy of holding in the bands
Of memory all the hours whose golden sands
Were run with friends remote whom space conceals.

Such bliss is thine, O poet, coming back
After long absence from thy native shores:
For, while all England saddens with farewells,
Thine own dear land, expectant, opens doors
Of welcome wide for thee on homeward track,
And every voice the heartfelt greeting swells.