Classic Poem

You who will hold these gathered songs,
Made, darling, long before we met,
Must keep the prophecy which belongs
To those dear eyes, so strangely set
With peace and laughter, where fulfils
The rapture of my alien hills.

Unknown, unknown you softly trod
Among my fruitful silences,
The last and splendid gift of God.
The quest of all my Odysseys,
The meaning of those quiet lands
Where I found comfort at your hands.

And when the yellowing woods awake,
And small birds' twittered loves are told,
When streams run silver, and there break
The crocuses to tender gold,
When quick light winds shall stir my hair,
Some part of you will wander there.