I wandered with bowed head and footstep slow,
A stranger in the well-remembered place,
Where Time has left not one familiar face
I knew long years ago.
By marsh-lands golden with bog asphodel,
I saw the fitful plover wheel and scream;
The soft winds swayed the foxglove’s purple bell;
The iris trembled by the whispering stream;
Gazing on these blue hills which know not change,
All the dead years seemed fallen dim and strange,