Strange the world about me lies,
Never yet familiar grown—
Still disturbs me with surprise,
Haunts me like a face half known.
In this house with starry dome,
Floored with gemlike plains and seas,
Shall I never feel at home,
Never wholly be at ease?
On from room to room I stray,
Yet my Host can ne’er espy,
And I know not to this day
Whether guest or captive I.
So, between the starry dome
And the floor of plains and seas,
I have never felt at home,
Never wholly been at ease.
| About the poet |
|
| By the same poet |
| An Epitaph |
| Wordsworth’s Grave |
| Lacrimae Musarum |
| The Ballad of Semmerwater |
| Our Men |
| The Prince’s Quest |
| Vita Nuova |
| April |
| Estrangement |
| Changed Voices |
| England and Her Colonies |
| Ireland |
| Related books |
| Sir William Watson at amazon.co.uk |
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