Classic Poem

There would be no this year's flower there
If we went back;
They have ploughed the anemones and bluets under,
Wheat grows down to the track.

The stream is widened and dammed across,
There's a house on the hill.
There is nothing left of the spring we found there,
Wild and still.

It is all changed as you and I,
Changed and torn away—
But cool and fragrant and fresh as rain
Is the song I made that day!