Through the fog? . . . Was this my father’s England?

......

I think I see my father’s sister stand

Upon the hall-step of her country house

To give me welcome. She stood straight and calm,

Her somewhat narrow forehead braided tight

As if for taming accidental thoughts

From possible quick pulses. Brown hair

Pricked with gray by frigid use of life.

A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate lines;