Letter XXI

O’ Tell me of the dream, & whisper at my feet.
I am a thousand stream at which your sighs repeat.
& like a million wave, in thine heart, I’m a rave;
Speaking of Love, that wins at his defeat.

O’ Tell me of the glory, the times you’re struck by fear.
& tell of that same story, How life took those you endear.
As much as you get old, Thy pain gets thousandfold;
That reminiscing song of those that can’t be here.

Back then what was a smile, now weights within your chest.
It tells a speech worthwhile, That which one’s nothing but a guest,
That wherever you roam, thine loving hearts are home;
That whether east or west, nowhere but home is best.

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