There is nothing gay or green there for my gathering, it may be,
Yet on brown fields there lies
A haunting purple bloom: is there not something in grey skies
And in grey sea?
I want what world there is behind your eyes,
I want your life and you will not give it to me.
Now, if I look, I see you walking down the years,
Young, and through August fields—a face, a thought, a swinging dream perched on a stile—;
I would have liked (so vile we are!) to have taught you tears
But most to have made you smile.