Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/50

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And I, the climbing tip
Of that old ivy, time,
To waver swaying over a blind wall
With all
To-day to dream in,
and, behind,
The never-resting root
Through my live body drives
The living shoot,
The climbing ivy-tip of time.

I am a room at the end of a long journey
The windows of which open upon the night
Or perhaps
Nothing—

I am a room at a passage end where lies
Huddled in darkness one that door by door

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