ET EGO IN ARCADIA VIXI
Autumn is on the fields and still November,
Here with a wide-winged flame and flooding of gold,
Here where the moist ploughed slopes rise fold on fold,
Down where the cherry-copse heart is a crimson ember,
Up where the blood red tide of the woods is rolled,
—And oh, dear God! I remember—how I remember
Autumn upon your fields in a time grown old....
—Shivering poplar trees on the long horizon,
Wastes of the dim deep fen, and the water’s gleam,
Rime all white on the furrow and toiling team,
Scarcely a streak of colour to rest the eyes on—
And here, where the beechwoods blaze and the red fires stream,
The call of your far, dank fields that the dead mist lies on,
Tugs at my heart for ever, and shatters my dream....