I Am Driven Everywhere From A Clinging Home

I am driven everywhere from a clinging home, O autumn eves! and I ween'd that you would yet have made, when your smouldering dwindled to odorous fume, close room for my heart, where I might crouch and dream of days and ways I had trod, and look with regret on the darkening homes of men and the window-gleam, and forget the morrows that threat and the unknown way. But a bitter wind came out of the yellow-pale west and my heart is shaken and fill'd with its triumphing cry: You shall find neither home nor rest; for ever you roam with stars as they drift and wilful fates of the sky!