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 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 listen for returning feet

and voices at the door.