When the blazing sun hangs low in the western sky,

when the wind dies away on the mountain,

when the song of the meadowlark turns still,

when the field locust clicks no more in the field,

and the sea foam sleeps like a maiden at rest,

and twilight touches the shape of the wandering earth,

I turn home.

Through blue shadows and purple woods,

I turn home.

I turn to the place that I was born,

to the mother who bore me and the father who taught me,

long ago, long ago, long ago.

Alone am l now, lost and alone, in a far, wide, wandering world.

Yet still when the blazing sun hangs low,

when the wind dies away and the sea foam sleeps,

and twilight touches the wandering earth,

I turn home.