HOME  by EDWARD THOMAS
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.
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|Author||Thomas, Edward (1878-1917)|
|Copyright||Copyright Edward Thomas, 1979, reproduced under licence from Faber and Faber Ltd.|
|First line||Not the end: but there's nothing more.|
|Publication source||Edward Thomas Collected Poems|
|Publication editor||Thomas, George|
|Publishers||Faber and Faber|
|Digital repository||The First World War Poetry Digital Archive|