Home
NOT the end: but there's nothing more.Sweet Summer and Winter rudeI have loved, and friendship and love,The crowd and solitude:
But I know them: I weary not;But all that they mean I know.I would go back again homeNow. Yet how should I go?
This is my grief. That land,My home, I have never seen;No traveller tells of it,However far he has been.
Afid could I discover it,I fear my happiness there,Or my pain, might be dreams of returnHere, to these things that were.
Remembering ills, though slightYet irremediable,Brings a worse, an impurer pangThan remembering what was well.
No: I cannot go back,And would not if I could.Until blindness come, I must waitAnd blink at what is not good.
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