The Dwelling-Place [antikvár]

THE DEDICATION E. W., 1882-1948 It was your room they moved me to (I, not yet four the year you died, Not grasping how I might have cried), Dear Father, whom I hardly knew; And your great, polished chest-of-drawers Was all that I inherited Besides: it loomed above my bed: Dark in the wood-grain still there pours, In memory, vast, the gathered deep-Huge waves that surged, curded to foam (In the security of home), And broke, as 1 sank into sleep. Clearing those drawers out, grown to man, I came upon your photograph: It seemed a visual epitaph To one 1 never thought, till then, I'd loved or feared. Now time had blurred Your placid features, void of care, Who died, as if you had no heir. Intestate: so on me conferred No such authority as dressed. In my conception, all your acts; Mere rooms to occupy as facts-No freehold rightfully possessed. Moreover, childish hands, untaught In every art but innocence, Had scribbled into radiance The aspect which the lens had caught