Wanderjahre

Roused from the fumes of wine, I hear the drum,
Midst thoughts of home, roll from the distant tower.
While through the trees faint streaks of daylight come,
And the spring passes in a pattering shower.

The tired bird homeward wings its way at last;
Flowers fade and die beneath wild winds oppressed.
What have my wanderings earned these ten years past?
My wayworn horse is sick of east and west.