Poetry Archives

Not in this chamber only at my birth—
  When the long hours of that mysterious night
  Were over, and the morning was in sight—
I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firth
I have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;
  And never shall one room contain me quite
  Who in so many rooms first saw the light,
Child of all mothers, native of the earth.

So is no warmth for me at any fire
  To-day, when the world’s fire has burned so low;
I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire,
At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong,
And straighten back in weariness, and long
  To gather up my little gods and go.