I sit beside the fire and think
Of all that I have seen,
Of meadow-flowers and butterflies
In summers 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 comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood and every spring
there is adifferent 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 listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.