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I learned-at least-what Home could be-
How ignorant I had been
Of pretty ways of Covenant-
How awkward at the Hymn
Round our new Fireside-but for this-
This pattern-of the Way-
Whose Memory drowns me, like the Dip
Of a Celestial Sea-
What Mornings in our Garden-guessed-
What Bees-for us-to hum-
With only Birds to interrupt
The Ripple of our Theme-
And Task for Both-
When Play be done-
Your Problem-of the Brain-
And mine-some foolisher effect-
A Ruffle-or a Tune-
The Afternoons-Together spent-
And Twilight-in the Lanes-
Some ministry to poorer lives-
Seen poorest-thro’ our gains-
And then Return-and Night-and Home-
And then away to You to pass-
A new-diviner-care-
Till Sunrise take us back to Scene-
Transmuted-Vivider-
This seems a Home-
And Home is not-
But what that Place could be-
Afflicts me-as a Setting Sun-
Where Dawn-knows how to be-
(Emily Dickinson)
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