Here is a tanka by philosopher Nishida Kitarō 西田幾多郎, entered in his diary towards the end of 1940 (according to Ueda Kaoru 上田薫's Nishida Kitarō kashū 西田幾多郎歌集, 2009):

故郷之小川に遊ふわらべらのいなか言もなつかしみ聞く

furusato no/ ogawa ni asobu/ warabera no/ inakakotoba mo/ natsukashimi kiku

In my home town/ the children play in the stream/ and speak in local tones/ to which I listen fondly

And here he is expanding at length on the same topic in his introduction to Ogawa Suimei 小川水明's Ogawa Suimei kashū 小川水明歌集 (1918):

That people must not forget their roots is not a chill obligation, but rather a truth of human nature. My home town is not a pleasant place; it offers no scenery worth the visit; it is not lively or bright. The fields and mountains are trapped deep in the snow; the storm's wild roar is the only sound; lead-colored clouds hang heavy and dull not only through the long winter but even in the so-called "little spring" in autumn, and the light of the setting sun is dark and red on the horizon; it puts one in mind of the entrance to the city of the dead, with "Through me you pass into the city of woe" written over it; but I feel the strongest nostalgia imaginable for this home town of mine. The streams and mountains, pale blue in the weak light; the children playing there, speaking in the unsophisticated local dialect; into this are my childhood memories woven, and by this do I return to the cheerful dreams I had at that time.

When I die, I would be buried in the mountains of my home town/ there to dream of friends with whom I spoke so long ago

A visit home always brings the Inferno to my mind, too.