A baby's cradle with no baby in it, A baby's grave where autumn leaves drop sere; The sweet soul gathered home to Paradise, The baby waiting here. Rumor of passion you'll doubtless insist On perceiving in my glance. Please just Go. Home is never what you think it is. Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist Is always almost just about to lift. Nothing is truer. Dear, not even this Candle can explain its searing twist Of flame mounted on cool amethyst. Go on home -- not where you think it is, But where you would expect its comfort least, In still-black stars our century will miss Seeing. Nothingness is not as true as this Faith we grind up with denial: grist To the midnight mill; morning's catalyst. Come, let's go home, wherever you think it is. Nothing is true, my dear. Not even this. Copyright 2001 by The Modern Poetry Association. This poem appears in the April 2001 issue of @3Poetry Magazine.@1 http://poetrymagazine.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BREST LEFT BEHIND by JOHN CHIPMAN FARRAR MARCO BOZZARIS by FITZ-GREENE HALLECK REQUIEM FOR ONE SLAIN IN BATTLE by GEORGE LUNT EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE SWALLOWS by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS A HIGHLAND VILLAGE by MATHILDE BLIND MASKS OF DEATH by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME by ROBERT BURNS |