  The yellow willow leaves that float Down Severn after Autumn rains Take not of trouble any note— Lost to the tree, its joys and pains. But man that has a thousand ties Of homage to his place of birth, Nothing surrenders when he dies; But yearns for ever to his earth— Red ploughlands, trees that friended him, Warm house of shelter, orchard peace. In day’s last rosy influence dim They flock to us without a cease; Through fast-shut doors of olden houses In soundless night the dear dead come, Whose sorrow no live folk arouses, Running for comfort hither home. Though leaves on tide may idly range, Grounding at last on some far mire— Our memories can never change: We are bond, we are ruled with Love’s desire. |
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