Sundays with the poets :: At home in Ireland

I never saw a man who looked

      With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

      Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went

      With sails of silver by.

From The Ballad of Reading Gaol
by Oscar Wilde

This October I'm writing every day on being at home in Ireland. But on Sundays I'll be sharing the words of others... with pictures that, of course, will never do their words justice.