Grace Hazard Conkling

Written in Germany

O LITTLE town of memories,

So brown and golden in the light,

Do you remember one who sees

You beckon, day and night?

There is a sweet French town that broods

Dove-grey upon a rounded hill,

Whose peopled streets were solitudes

To me, a wanderer still.

And in the South a white town sleeps:

Carven of ivory it seems:

But a man’s heart perversely keeps

Such beauty for his dreams.

The rosiest, cosiest town I know

Is this above the rushing Rhine:

Here might he stay who could not go

Home to a town like mine.

They do not know you, little town,

Who say that all roads lead to Rome:

I’ve tramped the broad world up and down,

And every road leads home.