Sonnet XLVIII (Church Hill III)
There’s something sacred about this table,
Oak, like the door, rooted in love and time;
Like a lesson from some ancient fable;
The beauty of nature is made sublime.
It frightens me, this comfortable peace,
The fabric of tears, happiness and joy,
Encompassing me like the softest fleece
Making me feel like a lost little boy
Who is finally home... and yet, not so,
For though I am welcomed with open arms,
As often as I arrive I must go
Face this world alone and endure its harms.
I don’t understand why your family bloomed
When mine died long ago; I still feel doomed.
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