Somewhere I heard the closing of a door,
And like a sigh, on the bosom of the wind,
I am prisoner of the flesh no more.
The open road lies before me.
Ne?er did I behold such Golden Glory.
Perchance, I recaptured a distant dream?
Memory stirs as I gaze upon this exultant scene.
Have I once before, passed through this door?
Then, autumn is passed and again it is spring.
I live and breathe, and it would seem
That this is reality ? the other the dream.
© Elizabeth Anderson 1958
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