Home [2]

HOME [1] 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.