Turning From These Haunts Away

The commonest spot we cannot without pain
Relinquish, where we tarried but a day,
And struck no roots, when to our hearts we say,
We ne'er shall look upon this spot again;
What wonder then if I cannot restrain
Some sadness, turning from these haunts away,
Where we have many a month been free to stray
By verdant stream, o'er hill or pleasant plain--
A momentary sadness, yet which brings
Thanksgiving with it, gratitude for this,
That where we live, we cannot choose but love;
We make a friend of nature, until bliss
(Few guess how much), we daily, hourly prove
From the known aspect of familiar things.