Home (1)

Not the end: but there's nothing more.

Sweet Summer and Winter rude

I 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 home

Now. 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.

And could I discover it,

I fear my happiness there,

Or my pain, might be dreams of return

Here, to these things that were.

Remembering ills, though slight

Yet irremediable,

Brings a worse, an impurer pang

Than remembering what was well.

No: I cannot go back,

And would not if I could.

Until blindness come, I must wait

And blink at what is not good.