These were my homes

 

                        These were my homes

 

These were my homes then, though I did not know;

The swell of the womb, and a mother's long breast

And the small peace of children's house;

The blanket of my bed, and the night's rest

Beneath, and then the walking to sweet air.

  

These were the homes through they did not know me

The worn cool green of my father's lands,

Older than battle, the wars that worn them;

That moments lingering, for each was planned

And only I had to reach out to sweet air

 

Then these are the homes that I will know yet

One book to live in, one honest page

One face to meet at dawn and noon and night

One storm to soothe, one oblivion, one stage

One bed in which to breathe my last air

  

And last, the homes made on other roads:

But where these mine to know, mine to be told

I should not tell lest they should become mine