The Wanderer by

Doom is dark and deeper than any sea—dingle.
Upon what man it fall
In spring, day—wishing flowers appearing,
Avalanche sliding, white snow from rock—face,
That he should leave his house,
No cloud—soft hand can hold him, restraint by women;
But ever that man goes
Through place—keepers, through forest trees,
A stranger to strangers over undried sea,
Houses for fishes, suffocating water,
Or lonely on fell as chat,
By pot—holed becks
A bird stone—haunting, an unquiet bird.
There head falls forward, fatigued at evening,
And dreams of home,
Waving from window, spread of welcome,
Kissing of wife under single sheet;
But waking sees
Bird—flocks nameless to him, through doorway voices
Of new men making another love.

Save him from hostile capture,
From sudden tiger’s leap at corner;
Protect his house,
His anxious house where days are counted
From thunderbolt protect,
From gradual ruin spreading like a stain;
Converting number from vague to certain,
Bring joy, bring day of his returning,
Lucky with day approaching, with leaning dawn.

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