And if I dream,
A life in other lives than this,
A glaring wit, a rage, a passing
Whistling by in leaves of ash and rot,
Or if I walk alone, or try, or cry,
or anything beyond the words
I dare to say in this, my time is
Otherwise well spent unless,
Like mist's cold fingers, Sandman's fry
Creep out of dreams into my life.
I shake my head, I doubt, I groan,
Resolve in betterment of duty go.
But dear, I've never til this moment known
The joyful peace of being home.
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