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These Were My Homes
These were my homes then, though I did not know;
The swell of the womb, and a mother's long breast
And the small peace of a children's house;
The blankets of my bed, and the night's rest
Beneath, and then the walking to sweet air.
These were my homes though they did not know me
The worn cool green of my father's lands, older than battle, the wars that won them;
The moments lingering, for each was planned
And only I had to reach out to sweet air.
Then these are the homes that I will know yet
One book to live in, one honest page.
One face to meet at dawn and noon and night
One storm to soothe, one oblivion, one stage
One bed in which to breathe my last air.
At last, the homes made on other roads:
But were these mine to know, mine to be told
I should not tell lest they should become mine.