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OFTEN I had gone this way before:But now it seemed I never could beAnd never had been anywhere else;'Twas home; one nationalityWe had, I and the birds that sang,One memory.
They welcomed me. I had come backThat eve somehow from somewhere far:The April mist, the chill, the calm,Meant the same thing familiarAnd pleasant to us, and strange too,Yet with no bar.
The thrush on the oaktop in the laneSang his last song, or last but one;And as he ended, on the elmAnother had but just begunHis last; they knew no more than IThe day was done.
Then past his dark white cottage frontA labourer went along, his treadSlow, half with weariness, half with ease;And, through the silence, from his shedThe sound of sawing rounded allThat silence said.
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