Do they wonder where we are,
The pigeon on its perch,
The ant upon the path.
Do they wonder where we are?
Now while we are gone
We won’t disturb the song
Of the thrush upon the branch
Or the passing butterflies.
And when we are all gone
Will they miss us on the land?
How tall will grow the grass?
How wide will spread the hedge?
Will peace arrive at last
Just as the old tales said?
While plague after plague swept through the city
Winnowing lives, like corn, without pity,
The gallows stood close, the axe was not dulled,
While I, by the peace of Avon was lulled.
The play is the thing, all life is a play,
Three days and nights on horse-back away.
All journeys end in true lovers greeting.
Where the bee sucks our pleasures were fleeting,
Violets, eglantine, sweet summer wine,
Came with their season and then he was mine.
Spring time is gone, winter’s cold, he is dead.
I dream in the depths of our second best bed.
Seasons keep turning, and little remains
but wise words from sweet Will, who won’t come again.
The Dreaming Path 