I have watched myself alone
Coming homeward in the lane
When I seemed to see a meaning
In my going or remaining
Not the meaning of the grass.
Not the dreaming mortal grace
Of the green leaves on the year—
And why, then, should I hear
A sound as of the sowers going down
Through blossoming young hedges in the dawn—
Winter is not done.
There were buds on the chestnut-trees, soft, swollen,
Sticky with thick gum, that seemed to press,
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