I paid no attention to the authors’ names in those days, but I read all the stories, and the one I remembered for years told of the space bum, a blind troubadour hitch-hiking on spaceships so he could get back to Earth to die. At the final verse of his ballad I started crying, and I never forgot it
“We pray for one last landing
On the globe that gave us birth;
Let us rest our eyes on the fleecy skies
And then last week I came across a battered old paperback being offered for 25 cents (same price as the original PocketBooks of my childhood) -- a collection of short stories by Robert Heinlen. I don’t read science fiction, wouldn’t even have picked it up – but there was the title “The Green Hills of Earth.” And there was the story.
Seems the troubador’s name was Rhysling – suitably Welsh, though that bit escaped me when I read it years ago. And reading it again this morning, when I got to that last verse – I found myself crying.