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.