IF time could roll back years for me
And lift the veil that ages seam,
Them might I live what memory
Can only dream.
I’d walk a garden gay with flowers,
A garden wild but sweet withal;
I’d while again those blissful hours
I shake the trees that bow with fruit;
For many a rose-cheeked apple hung
Just out of reach; I throw my boot,
As once I flung.
I sit beside the table long
With farmer stout and noisy men:
I hear a tale, and many a song
Of hill and glen.
The reaper now lies rusted green;
The garden paths are choked with weed;
No fruit upon the trees is seen,
And all are fled!
19. 2. 1928