“It's on a rough New Hampshire hill,” he said,
“A low, white house with apple trees close by,
And further up the hill the grey barns stand
With ridge poles taut against the northern sky.

“I often climbed the hill at dusk to see
The sunsets soar and fade and then I'd lie
As I am lying now, and watch the stars
In bright battalions wheel across the sky.

“I wonder if the apple blossoms drift
Across the moonlit grass now May is here—
I wonder if the lilac bough still taps
My window sill the way it did last year.

“I wonder if the cowslips still splash gold
Across the marshland by the pasture bars—”
He coughed, spat blood and lay with arms outstretched,
His sightless eyes still questioning the stars.