I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen,
Of Meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were,
With morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be
When winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see,
For still there are so many things that I have never seen:
In every wood in every spring there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago,
And people who will see a world that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think of times that were before,
I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.
