Fulfillment

Some dusk the door I strive against shall give,
And I shall see the garden veiled in gray,
Friendly as that faint dream I made to live,
And fought for, with bare hands, the long white day.

I shall go in to flowers gently blown,
White-blossomed trees, and paths of healing sands,
I shall go in, and I shall take my own —
A stranger with unsightly bleeding hands.
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