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Show To see the barn loom warm, the hay-mound's dome, The welcome-windowed kitchen lights of home. Today I come from fallen city pride, Bruised from contact in the world of men, To heal my sight with wind on rippled wheat And let its silent fingers lift my hair, To drink of solitude in sun-striped corn, To hear the thud of treetop ripened fruit, Unheeding of the train's inviting hoot. So must I come again, and yet again- As Antaeus must wrestle and be thrown Again, again, to draw new strength from earth- Back to the small beginnings of my birth. |