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 would 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 there were before,
I listen for returning feet
     and voices at the door.