Monday, November 14, 2005


14 November 2005, 10:19 PM

This emesis prolonged itself
Long since void of aught
Except bile-bitterness
Involuntary spasms cease

Her hair
Not plastered to her face
Held gently by one hand
As another cools the burning of her brow

Mops away the salty seas
Ill-gotten tears
For which the hand that wipes them
Is not responsible

Though sorrowful
Yet gladly did this Father sit beside her
As she wept and all the wretched grieving
Would have kept behind her lips

Except his arms around her frame
Expelled and comforted the shame
Held before her face a glass
Reflecting for the child her name

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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