Nostalgia

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.