Rat sculled gently homewards in a dreamy mood, murmuring poetry-things over to himself, - Kenneth Grahame

"This is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to me," whispered the Rat, as if in a trance.
"Here, in this holy place, here if anywhere, surely we shall find Him!"

Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, Those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way.

"Beyond the Wild Wood comes the Wild World," said the Rat. "And that's something that doesn't matter, either to you or to me. I've never been there, and I'm never going, nor you either, if you've got any sense at all."