YOUR birds that call from tree to tree Just overhead, and whirl and dart, Your breeze fresh-blowing from the sea, And your sea singing on, Sweetheart.
Your salt scent on the thin sharp air Of this grey dawn's first drowsy hours, While on the grass shines everywhere The yellow starlight of your flowers.
At the road's end your strip of blue Beyond that line of naked trees— Strange that we should remember you As if you would remember these!
As if your spirit, swaying yet To the old passions, were not free Of Spring's wild magic, and the fret Of the wilder wooing of the sea!
What threat of old imaginings, Half-haunted joy, enchanted pain, Or dread of unfamiliar things Should ever trouble you again?
Yet you would wake and want, you said, The little whirr of wings, the clear Gay notes, the wind, the golden bed Of the daffodil: and they are here!
Just overhead, they whirl and dart Your birds that call from tree to tree, Your sea is singing on—Sweetheart, Your breeze is blowing from the sea.
Beyond the line of naked trees At the road's end, your stretch of blue— Strange if you should remember these As we, ah! God! remember you!
