Reminiscence

IF I were dead, I would not miss
The things that were my deeper bliss.
I should be far too well at rest
For burning thoughts to fill my breast.
There, in the silence of the grave,
Content with what such stillness gave,
No yearning should disturb my will;
Yet, when the Spring ran through the hill,
Haply the wandering scent of her
Some consciousness in me might stir,
And with the blind roots’ will I might
Grope back, remembering, toward the light.

Ah, God! To walk the world again
When all the fields are sweet with rain;
To come again when dusk is falling
And hear the tree-toad’s drowsy calling;
To wander through the tufted clover
When Humble-bee ’s a busy lover;
Or stumble on some little grove
My loneliness had made me love;
To wear a cool green summer frock;
To hear the busy kitchen clock
Tick while the house is dark and still,
And vine-leaves at the window-sill
Whisper a small word to the grass
When desultory “ breezes pass;
Above a teacup’s brim to gaze
At slow smoke rising through the blaze,
Or meet, perhaps, the friendly look
Of eyes just lifted from a book;
To see the tidy little towns
Tucked in, asleep, beneath the downs;
To ride a long day straight and hard,
And come at dusk to stable-yard,
Hearing the great beasts in the stalls
Stamp, or rub softly ’gainst the walls,
Or blow the dust from out the grain —
Ah, God! to know these things again.