"They were pilgrims, for they had resigned, for ever, what the good hold most dear -- their homes. Home can never be transferred; never repeated in the experience of an individual. The place consecrated by parental love, by the innocence and sports of childhood, by the first acquaintance with nature; by the linking of the heart to the visible creation, is the only home. There there is a living and breathing spirit infused into nature: every familiar object has a history -- the trees have tongues, and the very air is vocal. There the vesture of decay does not close in and control the noble functions of the soul. It sees and hears and enjoys without the ministry of gross material substance." excerpt from 'Hope Leslie' by Catharine Maria Sedwick
It doesn't matter how restless I claim my soul is. It doesn't matter where my travels take me or what adventures I may find. My home will never release its claim.