Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/30

 I have watched myself alone Coming homeward in the lane When I seemed to see a meaning In my going or remaining Not the meaning of the grass. Not the dreaming mortal grace Of the green leaves on the year—

And why, then, should I hear A sound as of the sowers going down Through blossoming young hedges in the dawn— Winter is not done.

There were buds on the chestnut-trees, soft, swollen, Sticky with thick gum, that seemed to press,