My feet reluctant linger at the gate

I'm inadvertently getting into the olde American poets. All that New York Times reading of late, I guess. I wanted to post a picture of the new Firstdraft here but I can't find them on their website, despite what Will tells me. I'm so proud of all the great stuff everyone is doing.

Why does that paragraph want to indent itself? How odd.

Transformed the very landscape seems to be;

It is the same, yet not the same to me.

So many memories crowd upon my brain,

So many ghosts are in the wooded plain,

I fain would steal away, with noiseless tread,

As from a house where some one lieth dead.

I cannot go;—I pause;—I hesitate;

My feet reluctant linger at the gate;

As one who struggles in a troubled dream

To speak and cannot, to myself I seem.

Vanish the dream! Vanish the idle fears!

Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years!

Whatever time or space may intervene,

I will not be a stranger in this scene.

Here every doubt, all indecision, ends;

Hail, my companions, comrades, classmates, friends!