Gone, Gone Again
GONE, gone again,May, June, July,And August gone,Again gone by,
Not memorableSave that I saw them go,As past the empty quaysThe rivers flow.
And now again,In the harvest rain,The Blenheim orangesFall grubby from the trees,
As when I was young--And when the lost one was here--And when the war beganTo turn young men to dung.
Look at the old house,Outmoded, dignified,Dark and untenanted,With grass growing instead
Of the footsteps of life,The friendliness, the strife;In its beds have lainYouth, love, age and pain:
I am something like that;Only I am not dead,Still breathing and interestedIn the house that is not dark:--
I am something like that:Not one pane to reflect the sun,For the schoolboys to throw at--They have broken every one.
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