I sit beside
the fire and think of
all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have
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
when winter comes without a spring that
I shall ever see.
For still there are 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
I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.