The laurels of home are lovely in all seasons. It’s a pity to have to travel, crossing lonely moors and speaking in forsaken halls.

a plant with leaves and flowers

Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown

— by William Wordsworth

Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown And spread as if ye knew that days might come When ye would shelter in a happy home, On this fair Mount, a Poet of your own, One who ne’er ventured for a Delphic crown To sue the God; but, haunting your green shade All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self-sown. Farewell! no Minstrels now with harp new-strung For summer wandering quit their household bowers; Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors, Or musing sits forsaken halls among.