Goodbye

So you’ve had enough of the tropics, and the back is growing bent
And the heart is not so buoyant, and it’s time you packed and went
You’re tired of wayside squatters, you’re tired of the spitting host
Of the fatal red on the pavement, of the chunam white on the post
Of the food that does not feed you, of the breeze that does not brace
Of the lawless platform lawyer all out to scratch your face
And the friends you had are all scattered, the friends who cared and knew
And a newer race is rising with never a use for you
And — yes you’re tired of the Tropics and you’d better pack and go
To the haunts and the hearths of the homeland, to the fields and folk you know
Yet, o my soul remember, when you’ve sailed the seas away
And the English climate’s chilly and the English clouds are gray
When the birds are sad and silent, and the sun is seldom seen
And life is miles of houses with miles of mud between
You will see in a sudden vision, you will see with a sudden sigh
The scarlet splashed flamboyant awash in the azure sky
You will see Anuradhapura and the old kings’ bathing pool
And the shadowy blue king-fisher, the carven granite cool
And the pass of Haputale and the lowland flat and far
And through Gravillea feathers, the rosy evening star
And the moon-besilvered jungle, the dipping magic cross
Mid steady balm in-blowing from the silver foam and floss
And better than places — faces, the Aryan face (your own)
With its brown and olive beauty, the youths and maids you’ve known
And the tender pearl of India in the black and brilliant eye
My soul, you will break with longing — it can never be Goodbye.