Out of my door I step into <br />The country, all her scent and dew, <br />Nor travel there by a hard road, <br />Dusty and far from my abode. <br /> <br />The country washes to my door <br />Green miles on miles in soft uproar, <br />The thunder of the woods, and then <br />The backwash of green surf again. <br /> <br />Beyond the feverfew and stocks, <br />The guelder-rose and hollyhocks; <br />Outside my trellised porch a tree <br />Of lilac frames a sky for me. <br /> <br />A stretch of primrose and pale green <br />To hold the tender Hesper in; <br />Hesper that by the moon makes pale <br />Her silver keel and silver sail. <br /> <br />The country silence wraps me quite, <br />Silence and song and pure delight; <br />The country beckons all the day <br />Smiling, and but a step away. <br /> <br />This is that country seen across <br />How many a league of love and loss, <br />Prayed for and longed for, and as far <br />As fountains in the desert are. <br /> <br />This is that country at my door, <br />Whose fragrant airs run on before, <br />And call me when the first birds stir <br />In the green wood to walk with her.<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-love-2/
