  I think these stars that draw so strangely near, That lean and listen for the turning earth, Are never wholly careless when they hear The murmur of her hushed and quiet mirth,— But looking out upon a world in bloom, They half-remember, and they heed and hark: An old, old sweetness in the scented gloom, An old, old music in the singing dark. Their own full Summers gone, such Æons past, Bird-song and bloom and swallow from the sky, These dead, desireless worlds find here, at last, Something remembered when the earth turns by, Sweet with these blowing odours they had known, This happy music that was once their own. |
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