The poet sees one little baby walking and feels immense pleasure. He describes how is the baby looking when she walks on her little feet.
When baby walks on grass with bare feet, the two white feet looks like white flower nod in wind. Her poise and run looks like ripple of water. Her playing feet on grass is so delightful like little robin's songs. It also looks like two white butterflies sitting together on one flower only for moment and then fly away.
The poet wants to wander with the baby like the wind wandering over the water. He wants the baby standing on his knees, feet on his hands. Her feet are as cool like syringa buds, silky and pink coloured.
A man's destination is his own village, His own fire, and his wife's cooking; To sit in front of his own door at sunset And see his grandson, and his neighbour's grandson Playing in the dust together. Scarred but secure, he has many memories Which return at the hour of conversation, (The warm or the cool hour, according to the climate) Of foreign men, who fought in foreign places, Foreign to each other. A man's destination is not his destiny, Every country is home to one man And exile to another. Where a man dies bravely At one with his destiny, that soil is his. Let his village remember. This was not your land, or ours: but a village in the Midlands, And one in the Five Rivers, may have the same graveyard. Let those who go home tell the same story of you: Of action with a common purpose, action None the less fruitful if neither you nor we Know, unt...
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