NOSTALGIA

THE WANING MOON looks upward; this grey night

Slopes round the heavens in one smooth curve

Of easy sailing; odd red wicks serve

To show where the ships at sea move out of sight.

The place is palpable me, for here I was born

Of this self-same darkness. Yet the shadowy house below

Is out of bounds, and only the old ghosts know

I have come, I feel them whimper in welcome, and mourn.

My father suddenly died in the harvesting corn

And the place is no longer ours. Watching, I hear

No sound from the strangers, the place is dark, and fear

Opens my eyes till the roots of my vision seems torn.

Can I go no nearer, never towards the door?

The ghosts and I we mourn together, and shrink

In the shadow of the cart-shed. Must we hover on the brink

Forever, and never enter the homestead any more?

Is it irrevocable? Can I really not go

Through the open yard-way? Can I not go past the sheds

And through to the mowie?— Only the dead in their beds

Can know the fearful anguish that this is so.

I kiss the stones, I kiss the moss on the wall,

And wish I could pass impregnate into the place.

I wish I could take it all in a last embrace.

I wish with my breast I here could annihilate it all.