The Quest -IV- The Traveler

No window in his suburb lights that bedroom where A little fever heard large afternoons at play: His meadows multiply; that mill, though, is not there Which went on grinding at the back of love all day. Nor all his weeping ways through weary wastes have found The castle where his Greater Hallows are interned; For broken bridges halt him, and dark thickets round Some ruin where an evil heritage was burned. Could he forget a child's ambition to be old And institutions where it learned to wash and lie, He'd tell the truth for which he thinks himself too young, That everywhere on his horizon, all the sky, Is now, as always, only waiting to be told To be his father's house and speak his mother tongue.