Let me roam about my home;
let my whole self go away:—:
for there are voices singing. . . .
singing. . . .
Those who have cried
have seen 'em, in their home;
in their dry cellar; in old quays;
in deadlands; and in the late hours—
they lied,
as in the dinging
of the doorbell drives those mad days
that once was ours
away.

Paralyzing gesture stops ye motion,
where the scarecrow once did lay. . . .
...