IV
Notin this chamber only at my birth—When the long hours of that mysterious nightWere over, and the morning was in sight—I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firthI have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;And never shall one room contain me quiteWho in so many rooms first saw the light,Child of all mothers, native of the earth.So is no warmth for me at any fireTo-day, when the world’s fire has burned so low;I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire,At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong,And straighten back in weariness, and longTo gather up my little gods and go.
Notin this chamber only at my birth—When the long hours of that mysterious nightWere over, and the morning was in sight—I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firthI have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;And never shall one room contain me quiteWho in so many rooms first saw the light,Child of all mothers, native of the earth.So is no warmth for me at any fireTo-day, when the world’s fire has burned so low;I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire,At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong,And straighten back in weariness, and longTo gather up my little gods and go.
Notin this chamber only at my birth—When the long hours of that mysterious nightWere over, and the morning was in sight—I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firthI have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;And never shall one room contain me quiteWho in so many rooms first saw the light,Child of all mothers, native of the earth.So is no warmth for me at any fireTo-day, when the world’s fire has burned so low;I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire,At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong,And straighten back in weariness, and longTo gather up my little gods and go.