The dead has come back,
He is here at the sill;
Try to believe
Give me more breath,
Or I may not withstand
The thrill of his voice
And the clasp of his hand.
Be quiet, my heart,
Can you not see
In the beat of my pulse
BACK to the earth would we come
In the fullness of years,
As we return home at dusk
When our eyes are dim with day
And our feet tired with stubble.
We would come with slow step
Along the cool loam of lanes,
Home to your heart
With the mellow toll of bells in the west.
But not as today would we come
To the trumpet's unnatural summons,
With our loins girt for a longer race
And our faces set for a different goal,
With our feet strung to the measures of life,
To a riot of bells in the east.
This is the season for blood-root and bud-break,
For freshets and resinous airs,
For the mating migrations