No window in his suburb lights that bedroom where
A little fever heard large afternoons at play:
His meadows multiply; that mill, though, is not there
Which went on grinding at the back of love all day.
Nor all his weeping ways through weary wastes have found
The castle where his Greater Hallows are interned:
For broken bridges halt him, and dark thickets round
Some ruin where an evil heritage was burned.
Could he forget a child's ambition to be old
And institutions where it learned to wash and lie,
He'd tell te truth for which he thinks himself too young.
That everywhere on the horizon of his sight
Is now, as always, only waiting to be told
To be his father's house and speak his mothers tongue.
Obama elected president
http://www.cnn.com/video/?JSONLINK=/video/politics...
CNN Contributors share their reaction to CNN's projection that Barack Obama will be elected president.
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