Nostalgia

Away, away, pale hills do fade, And clear the domain of grief that wore: The slumbering curls of sheaves I made In time’s ambush on the envied shore.

You served me well and suavely spun, With wind that caught the gibbous stare; Cling close dear shutters, to the sun, Till I recline with history there.

But there are no golden arrows, Nor any kindled path so true, Just dust, swept in quiet meadows, And dreams, cloaked in the midnight dew.

• John Crowe Ransom