The Waning Moon Looks Upward; This Grey Night Slopes Round The Heavens In One Smooth Curve Of Easy Sailing; Odd Red Wicks Serve To Show Where The Ships At Sea Move Out Of Sight. The Place Is Palpable Me, For Here I Was Born Of This Self-Same Darkness. Yet The Shadowy House Below Is Out Of Bounds, And Only The Old Ghosts Know I Have Come, I Feel Them Whimper In Welcome, And Mourn. My Father Suddenly Died In The Harvesting Corn And The Place Is No Longer Ours. Watching, I Hear No Sound From The Strangers, The Place Is Dark, And Fear Opens My Eyes Till The Roots Of My Vision Seems Torn. Can I Go No Nearer, Never Towards The Door? The Ghosts And I We Mourn Together, And Shrink In The Shadow Of The Cart-Shed. Must We Hover On The Brink Forever, And Never Enter The Homestead Any More? Is It Irrevocable? Can I Really Not Go Through The Open Yard-Way? Can I Not Go Past The Sheds And Through To The Mowie? - Only The Dead In Their Beds Can Know The Fearful Anguish That This Is So. I Kiss The Stones, I Kiss The Moss On The Wall, And Wish I Could Pass Impregnate Into The Place. I Wish I Could Take It All In A Last Embrace. I Wish With My Breast I Here Could Annihilate It All.