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No prodigal but has turned In his dreams To behold that portal, Gateway to yesterday Refuge for a thousand Tomorrows —

Seeing it open for him Like patient arms For letting go — and for Taking back —

Host to his dreams! Above conquest, beyond purchase, Impervious to his squalor Or his taste . . . recording nothing But his going out And his coming in . . .

Offering the hearth where The prodigal of living warms His hands — speeding his going! Welcoming his coming back.