You who have gone gathering Cornflowers and meadowsweet, Heard the hazels glancing down On September eves, Seen the homeward rooks on wing Over fields of golden wheat,...
Sometimes the ghosts forgotten go Along the hill-top way, And with long scythes of silver mow Meadows of moonlit hay, Until the cocks of Cotswold crow The coming of the day. ...
Time gathers to my name; Along the ways wheredown my feet have passed I see the years with little triumph crowned, Exulting not for perils dared, downcast And weary-eyed and desolate for shame...