...The story of a girl in London, England


Sonnet 34


It’s most akin, I think, to coming home—

The sigh which lifts the bricks from off your breast,

When feet, at last, have ceased to list and roam…

Again upon the land they know the best:

The so familiar lines of mountain tops

Soft silhouetted ‘gainst the moon and stars

Which pour a silver glow upon the crops

Of quilted green and yellow; river scars

Across the landscape, ribbons whitish light;

The smell of crisping Autumn, faintly filled

With frost and smoke; the valley silent, bright,

With recognition, welcoming you still.

Yes, it feels like coming home, with you in sight.

My heart returns to me, the world is right.

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