This mental pilgrimage I often make –
I’m standing once more at the spot where you
through summer’s lane of oaks came into view;
a cherished image I will not forsake:
from sunny trees down onto sunny earth
the sunny finches’ end-trills dripped apace;
I saw the happy smile on your good face,
and thought: ‘That love’s more, surely, than I’m worth.’
And one thing’s certain: should you die, again
I’ll seem to be there in that oak-lined lane,
watching you coming with your face so dear.
Then will that summer’s day long gone from sight
become a vision of the future, where
you wait for me in an unworldly light.