Often and often it came back again <br />To mind, the day I passed the horizon ridge <br />To a new country, the path I had to find <br />By half-gaps that were stiles once in the hedge, <br />The pack of scarlet clouds running across <br />The harvest evening that seemed endless then <br />And after, and the inn where all were kind, <br />All were strangers. I did not know my loss <br />Till one day twelve months later suddenly <br />I leaned upon my spade and saw it all, <br />Though far beyond the sky-line. It became <br />Almost a habit through the year for me <br />To lean and see it and think to do the same <br />Again for two days and a night. Recall <br />Was vain: no more could the restless brook <br />Ever turn back and climb the waterfall <br />To the lake that rests and stirs not in its nook, <br />As in the hollow of the collar-bone <br />Under the mountain's head of rush and stone.<br /><br />Edward Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/over-the-hills-2/
