Forget the labour of those weary days, Wrapped round in kindness like September haze. The learned at their books have no more store Of wisdom than we'd close behind our door. Compared with us, the rich man would be poor. And a woman's care. But dreaming builds what dreaming can disown.
Dead fingers stretch themselves to tear it down.
I hear those voices that will not be drowned, Calling. There is no stone In earth's thickness to make a home, That you can build with and remain alone. Sometimes I see that boy here in this hut. His eyes are on me as they were that evil day. Stop moaning boy.