Of all that I have seen
Of meadow-flowers and butterflies
In summeers that have been:
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter somes without a spring
That I shall ever see.
For there are still so many things
That I have never seen:
In every wood in every spring
There is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago
And people who will see a world
That I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think
Of times there were before
I llisten for returning feet
And voices at the door.