Travels' End

O bed in my mother's house

with sheets as white as May

With blankets wove of carded wool

and scented with new-mown hay

With the poke of the feathered down

from her snow-white plumy geese

Oh, bed of mine in my mother's house

With sleep that was dreamy peace

Oh, far have I walked forlorn

Oh, bed that my mother made

I would that your sheet might be my shroud

And I in earth be laid.