My Friesland

I've come at last, my Friesland; I'll never leave again, But watch the budding trees stand Above the grassy plain. From the smallest little flow'rs that grow, To the tallest steeple's rise, You're the fairest country that I know Beneath the bluest skies. Everywhere I walk, I see, My memories are true; The people smiling back at me, Their eyes are sparkling too. From Bolsward down toward Heerenveen, The dearest land I've seen; What shame I nearly left for good, When I was but fifteen. I've come at last, my Friesland; My wand'ring I resign: Oh, sprawling, comely sealand, What joy to call you mine! {Form begins as a sonnet and continues as quatrain.}