54838: Home [2]

<p dir="ltr"> Not the end: but there's nothing more.<br> Sweet Summer and Winter rude<br> I have loved, and friendship and love,<br> The crowd and solitude:<br> But I know them: I weary not;<br> But all that they mean I know.<br> I would go back again home<br> Now. Yet how should I go?<br> This is my grief. That land,<br> My home, I have never seen;<br> No traveller tells of it,<br> However far he has been.<br> And could I discover it,<br> I fear my happiness there,<br> Or my pain, might be dreams of return<br> Here, to these things that were.<br> Remembering ills, though slight<br> Yet irremediable,<br> Brings a worse, an impurer pang<br> Than remembering what was well.<br> No: I cannot go back,<br> And would not if I could.<br> Until blindness come, I must wait<br> And blink at what is not good.<br></p>