  THERE is a place of dim, familiar things, Of contacts vaguely subtle to the touch— I call it home; in my imaginings Each detail is of value overmuch. There is a place where every little nook, And every cupboard with its special smell, Are clear upon my mind as in a book, I love it with a love that’s hard to tell. There is a garden too where essences Of flowers queerly mingle in the air, And butterflies, strange iridescences, Flutter about when evening enters there. |
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