I am older than Nature and her
By all the timeless age of Consciousness,
And my adult oblivion of the
Where I was born makes me not countryless.
Ay, and dim through my daylight thoughts
Yearnings for that land where my childhood dreamed,
Which I cannot recall in colour or
But haunts my hours like something that hath
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
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?