A baby's cradle with no baby in it, A baby's grave where autumn leaves drop sere; The sweet soul gathered home to Paradise, The baby waiting here. Rumor of passion you'll doubtless insist On perceiving in my glance. Please just Go. Home is never what you think it is. Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist Is always almost just about to lift. Nothing is truer. Dear, not even this Candle can explain its searing twist Of flame mounted on cool amethyst. Go on home -- not where you think it is, But where you would expect its comfort least, In still-black stars our century will miss Seeing. Nothingness is not as true as this Faith we grind up with denial: grist To the midnight mill; morning's catalyst. Come, let's go home, wherever you think it is. Nothing is true, my dear. Not even this. Copyright 2001 by The Modern Poetry Association. This poem appears in the April 2001 issue of @3Poetry Magazine.@1 http://poetrymagazine.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PLACE FOR A THIRD by ROBERT FROST DAT GAL O' MINE by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO AN EARLY DAFFODIL; SONNET by AMY LOWELL SIMON SURNAMED PETER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 12 by EZRA POUND |