That are all now gone.
The world, mirrored in a dark pool,
How unearthly it shone!
But now I have comfort
From the things that are,
Nor shrink too ashamed from the self
That to self is bare.
More than soft clouds of leaf
I like the stark form
Of the tree standing up without mask
In stillness and storm,
Poverty in the grain,
Warp, gnarl, exposed,
Nothing of nature's fault or the years'
Slowly injury glozed.
From the thing that is
My comfot is come.
Wind washes the plain road:
This is the way home.
--Laurence Binyon.
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