Where we’re going isn’t far,
Nor is it fair.
Ain’t no bigtop with a round
Of outhouses and sand,
Nor needlenosed sky-height
No, nor anywhere.
Where we’re going has been thatched.
It lets in such light
(Its hayseams must be spare as a tomb)
That it recalls a sitting room
Where we grieve in mist, and must and most
Of someone once here: thee, o Christ.