(A sonnet written soon after I came to Canada from Ireland)
That nightmare is most harrowing Whose symbols, first familiar, Writhe from the clasp into a witch-change, And asps gape up Out of the soft hair; No disappointment keen As parted in a crowd to clutch Eager at a lost friend, to find A face so far unknowing to become Still more a stranger.
I am a stranger in this familiar land, Lulled by our single tongue With its same seeming, Till some subtle turn Starts me up breathless from my dream of home.
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