In the dull blue alleys between stacked up withering houses
When the sun is not set, nor risen, the clock tells no time
There comes from its crooked shaded end some pulling force
Every stone and doorway, brick and eaves trough is as it should be

At that moment, placeless in the shapelessness of time
At its yawning mouth, I stare in, but do not approach.
Were I to ever enter, there would cease the call to come
I can imagine myself between those walls, and it is not the same

Upon the threshold I long to belong, to indulge, to become
A great nostalgia for what I have never known
A premonition of what will never be
In my place the dwellers of those dying New England homes feel nothing

They have stepped on every stone, brushed every brick
Passed through every doorway, stood under every trough
To them this is but the triteness of life, theirs homes are only homes.
As the sun moves and the moment dies, I am freed for one more day.