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Poem	I am older than Nature and her Time By all the timeless age of Consciousness, And my adult oblivion of the clime Where I was born makes me not countryless. Ay, and dim through my daylight thoughts escape Yearnings for that land where my childhood dreamed, Which I cannot recall in colour or shape But haunts my hours like something that hath gleamed And yet is not as light remembered, Nor to the left or to the right conceived; And all round me tastes as if life were dead And the world made but to be disbelieved. Thus I my hope on unknown truth lay; yet How but by hope do I the unknown truth get?
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